A Mysterious Thing
by Bad Samaritan
Summary: What happens when a lonely Mycroft and a world weary DI Lestrade cross paths? Mystrade happens. This basically consists of a mystery with a slow moving love story between the British Government and DI Lestrade. Pairings: Mystrade and implied Johnlock, the latter of which could be read as a bromance.
1. A Change in the Form of John

A/N: This story takes place in an AU where Moriarty either doesn't exist or hasn't engaged Sherlock in his games yet. The first few chapters will be very Mycroft-centric. This first one is a bit of a character study, setting the stage. I hope that won't be a problem, but if it is then I'm sorry. Basically, it is my firm belief that John would be the instigator of any relationship between Mycroft and Lestrade, and this story is the result of that.

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><p>Mycroft Holmes did not know what to think.<p>

He had always understood Sherlock, his brother, even when no one else had. There was a common ancestry between them, a connection between their very flesh and blood. Mycroft had ever understood his brother's psychology, well, for the most part. Sherlock was different, just as Mycroft was different. The detective had an intellect far beyond the average human being that could, if gone unchallenged, tear his mind apart from the inside out. It was important that his mind was kept occupied, distracted from the tedium of life. Why Sherlock's distraction of choice was detective work was a mystery to his brother, but that was beside the point. Even in the area of detective work, Sherlock was still an outsider. His keen skills of observation and mastery over logic evoked the jealousy of the police force. This obstacle could have easily been overcome by social graces if Sherlock had commanded any. As it was, Sherlock was extremely lacking in that region. The man had about as much social skill as a cat in a dog world, he simply didn't fit. Not only that, but he liked it that way. Social interactions without an ulterior motive were futile in his mind. What was the point of friendship? What was there to be gained from it that couldn't be gotten by other means?

Mycroft understood all this in his brother, for he himself was not so dissimilar. Letting people close to you was clearly asking for trouble, asking for pain, because, as much as humans would like to deny it, friendship always lead to pain. Whether it was the pain of loss or the pain of rejection, pain was what waited at the end of the line. Why go through pain like that if it can just be avoided in the first place? On this one issue the Holmes brothers were in agreement, friendship was not worth the effort or time it required. All relationships were like time bombs, every second that went by brought them closer to the inevitable explosion that would end them. Relationships were also monumental distractions from more important things. Part of the reason that the Holmes's functioned in the extraordinary way that they did was because they removed all extraneous information from their minds. Normal people cluttered their minds up with all kinds of useless information. These two only remembered important things, and, therefore, were more efficient. Emotions, feelings, friends; all were immaterial, and, to use Sherlock's words, were deleted from the Holmes bother's hard drives. They had been raised to think that way and neither of them ever questioned it; they could see evidence reaffirming their belief system all around them.

Then things changed, and Mycroft was left exceedingly confused. The change came in the form of an ex-army doctor named John Watson, recently returned from service in Afghanistan. At first the situation was nothing unusual, Sherlock stubbornly refused to let Mycroft pay his rent and, as a result, had gone through a string of flatmates. Dr. Watson would be like all the rest; he would live with Sherlock for a while, would sell Mycroft some useful information (everyone had their price), and would eventually leave, because Sherlock was an absolutely abominable flatmate. Then Sherlock did something unexpected, something unprecedented, he brought the good doctor with him to a crime scene. Mycroft was surprised, to put it mildly. Despite being a Holmes, Sherlock rarely did anything that Mycroft couldn't predict ahead of time. In fact, _no one_ ever did anything that Mycroft didn't see coming. He was almost never caught off guard, and even when he was he pretended that he wasn't. So, as his younger brother brought his new friend along for the ride, Mycroft remained unperturbed. He was very calm as he minorly altered his plans; now, Anthea had been given instructions to instigate the kidnapping as soon as possible, rather than waiting till John had actually moved in with Sherlock. Mycroft needed to talk to John, needed to evaluate the man, needed to see what had caused Sherlock to treat this man differently.

In the end, Mycroft wasn't disappointed. John Watson was different. Unlike the previous flatmates, John wasn't frightened in the least during the kidnapping process. He even tried (unsuccessfully) to flirt with Anthea as she escorted him to an abandoned warehouse in an unmarked car. Mycroft wrote this off as the bravery of a soldier, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't just a little bit impressed. Mycroft had reviewed John's files, including the notes written by his therapist, and had already formed some conclusions about the psychology of this army doctor. Here, with the man standing in front of him, he could see that his deductions had been correct. This man was not suffering from PTSD. On the contrary, he was having a hard time adjusting to civilian life simply because he, John Watson, was not an ordinary civilian. No, John Watson belonged on the battle field, needed his life to have that purpose of fighting for a cause. In short, he wasn't haunted by the war, he missed it. This man was significantly more interesting than the excessively ordinary people that had come before him, but that did not account for Sherlock's behavioral switch. Sherlock was not one to make friends lightly, and for him to show an interest in someone as…boring as Dr. Watson, did not make sense.

The matter became only more complicated from there. John point blank refused to sell information to Mycroft, not even letting him name a price. Dr. Watson, like Sherlock, did not seem the type to make friends quickly, he had trust issues. Yet here he was, unwaveringly loyal after knowing the consulting detective for a grand total of one day. Mycroft decided to put this loyalty to the test. He began to refer to John's therapist's notes aloud, a blatant display of power showing John exactly what he was dealing with. For the first time, John's fear showed through his mask of bravery. Ah, so he was intelligent enough to recognize that Mycroft was dangerous, that was good. Mycroft welcomed him as a new player in the battlefield that is London, leaving the rattled doctor to be driven home by Anthea. The address he asked her to take him to: 221b Baker Street. In the course of the evening, Dr. Watson went on to murder a serial killer cabbie, in order to save Sherlock's life. Mycroft did see that one coming; hence, he didn't intervene as Sherlock was putting his own life in danger by getting into the madman's cab. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed genuinely surprised when he put the pieces together, which brought to mind the question of why he had involved John in this case in the first place. Mycroft deemed it appropriate to make a second appearance of the night, because Sherlock, being his usual infuriating self, most likely would not inform John that he and Mycroft were relations and not, in fact, actual arch enemies. Already, Mycroft observed a great change in his brother's demeanor. He was no longer just Sherlock Holmes; he was now part of a team, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

As time went on, Mycroft's confusion was not alleviated. If anything, as John and Sherlock grew closer and closer together the situation made less and less sense. Whatever happened to relationships being not worth the time? Sherlock was not only friends with this ex-army doctor, but he was actively pursuing this friendship. He was participating in all kinds of useless activities, such as movie marathons, and he was making accommodations in his own lifestyle for John. That's right, he was changing himself for John. It was entirely ridiculous! Mycroft understood, of course, why such changes were being made. Why, he himself had often wished that he had a companion to share his life with. But why John Watson? What made John so special? There wasn't anything particularly appealing about the man. Yes, he was more easily tolerated than many human beings, but he could by no means be called an interesting man. If anything, John was ordinary. Was that where the appeal was, in his normalcy? Possibly, but Mycroft simply did not know.

For months, Mycroft reviewed footage from his hidden surveillance cameras, observing his brother and the new flatmate. He watched as their relationship continued to grow into a bond that could rival the greatest of romances. He knew everything there was to know about the John-Sherlock relationship. Perhaps he understood them better than they understood themselves. He perfectly understood the 'what', but couldn't seem to wrap his mind around the 'why'. Why now, why John Watson, when previously the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had was an enemy? Eventually, he came to the conclusion that he was not going to miraculously find answers by observing if he hadn't done so already. No, he needed to do more than that, he needed to interact. So, he devised a plan that he knew could very easily backfire. It was the only possible way to resolve this. He was going to, once again, kidnap John Watson.


	2. Drink Your Tea, Dr Watson

A/N: We now continue our very Mycroft-centric journey, but this time with some dialogue to make it less painful to write. Yay! I would like to say thank you to everyone who added this to their story alerts, you people just made my day. One quick thing, this chapter ended up being longer than I thought it would be so it has been split into two chapters. Both of them will be depressingly lacking in Lestrade. I am sorry, but that's the way it has to be.

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><p>The second time Mycroft kidnapped John Watson was not nearly as dramatic as the first. There was no mysterious utilizing of the phone booths of London, nor were there any unsaid, vaguely implied threats given out. There was merely an unmarked car that stopped next to John as he was walking home, the black door ominously opened to reveal Anthea sitting in the back, texting away on her blackberry. John, knowing exactly who he was dealing with, got into the car only slightly hesitantly. As far as he knew, Mycroft wasn't pressuring Sherlock to solve a case for him, or anything like that. There wasn't any obvious reason at all for the elder Holmes to be taking John hostage. So why was he in the back of this car? Try as he might, John could conceive no realistic reason for being kidnapped at this time. That was slightly concerning, because it most likely meant there was something going on that he didn't know about. When dealing with the Holmes brothers, one moment of ignorance could prove fatal. The poor man sighed and resigned himself to merely sit and mentally prepare himself for what was sure to be a harrowing conversation with his flatmates brother. No amount of preparation, however, could have readied him for the sight awaiting him as he got out of the car.<p>

John had been taken to an abandoned warehouse, a different one than last time, that much he had expected. What caught him off guard was the furniture arrangement. In the very center of the large, empty storeroom sat two extremely comfy-looking arm chairs at either end of a lovely table that was lavishly set for tea. There, in the arm chair farthest from John, was seated Mycroft, coolly sipping from his tea cup.

"Good evening Dr. Watson. Why don't you have a seat? There are some things I'd like to discuss with you." John held back for a moment, but then decided it would be best to follow Mycroft's suggestion, as the elder Holmes was staring at him pointedly over his cup. "Help yourself to some tea." Mycroft instructed when John did not immediately do so.

"You kidnapped me and dragged me halfway across London. I'm assuming you need something."

"All in good time, all in good time," The umbrella was hanging off the arm of the chair, but if Mycroft had been holding it John was sure he would have been using it to gesticulate. "Drink your tea." Mycroft's tone had become marginally threatening, and John thought it best to comply. The moment the tea cup touched John's lips a brilliant smile crossed Mycroft's face. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Now, I have a question for you, Dr. Watson, several questions in fact. If that would be alright with you, that is."

John held up his hand in assent, as if Mycroft had truly been asking his permission. Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance.

"My first question is very simple. However, I anticipate you will have trouble answering it. So, please, take your time. Why are you friends with my brother? He is rude, inconsiderate, and believes his mind superior to yours. He ignores all of your precious social norms, and has a tendency to leave human body parts lying around the flat you share. He lacks empathy for others, which generally results in him hurting someone's feelings and leaving you to clean up the mess. So why, Dr. Watson, are you friends with him?"

John blinked at Mycroft several times before comprehension set in. "Um…we, uh…get along?"

"Yes, but why?" John was almost positive that Mycroft was mocking him in some subtle way, but couldn't quite figure out how.

"I don't know…we just go together, I mean…I don't know."

Mycroft smiled condescendingly, "Would you like me to help? You are not just a doctor, you are a soldier. Even after all this time, everything about you radiates military. You have not adjusted to civilian life, nor should you. You are a part of something bigger than that. The fight between good and evil, the never ending battle between justice and crime; those are the wars you are fighting. Sherlock may not see them that way, he only sees the work as distraction, but he fights the fight every bit as passionately as you do. You are, both of you, attracted by danger. You have found it in my brother, and have pursued it with all that you have. Sherlock is your purpose, John, he is your cause. You are fighting on his side, just as when you were in the army you were fighting for 'Queen and Country'. As it often happens when two people are united against an opposing force, you and Sherlock have formed a bond of friendship. This much I understand. Would you agree that everything I have said is correct?"

"I suppose so," John had put on his emotionless soldier mask, Mycroft's insightful description making him become defensive.

"Good. Now, my second question is much more complicated, I'm afraid. My brother had a string of flatmates before you, and none of them were ever invited to a crime scene with him. In fact, he has been working as a consulting detective for many years and you were the first person ever to receive such an invitation. He has ever worked alone, completely self sufficient, but now he rarely ever does anything without you by his side. You two work surprisingly well together, and I admit that I cannot imagine a future for my brother that does not contain you. You have become…essential. My question is why. Why now, why you, why make an exception to every rule of social conduct he ever observed previously and befriend an ex-army doctor? I'm afraid I do not know the answer to this one, just as I'm sure you do not."

John was silent for a while. It was painfully obvious that this was not a question he had considered before. "Well, you're right. I have absolutely no idea why."

Mycroft sighed, "Ah, I thought that would be the case. My goal in this meeting was only to bring the question to the forefront of your mind. For I think it is one worth asking, don't you?" He didn't wait for a reply, but stood, grabbing his umbrella from where it had been hanging on the arm of the chair. "Well, I have to head back to the office now. It has been a pleasure, Dr. Watson, as always." With that the British Government sauntered out of the room, no doubt headed on his way to stop some international crisis, leaving John alone to his thoughts.

"I'm to take you home," Anthea appeared at his elbow seemingly out of nowhere.

On the way back to Baker Street, John replayed the conversation in his mind. What exactly had Mycroft been implying? Was it that he thought John was expendable? No, he had said that John was essential, so clearly this was not a veiled threat. It must be that Mycroft genuinely didn't understand why Sherlock chose to be friends with him, actual friends and not just flatmates. If John was being honest he didn't quite understand it himself. He supposed he appealed to the genius's ego, but it had to be more than that didn't it. Mycroft certainly thought the answer was more complicated than Sherlock's ego. If he hadn't, why would he have initiated this encounter? It occurred to John that the elder Holmes brother might just be playing mind games with him, trying to see if he would doubt Sherlock. That seemed rather plausible to John, hence that was the theory he decided to adopt. The question, however, didn't seem to want to leave the back of his mind. Why him, why John Watson? Why not some other random bloke? Anyone could serve the same purpose that John did, anyone at all. He bought the milk, paid the bills, chased after Sherlock as he was on a case, and told Sherlock repeatedly how amazing he was. Not jobs that required any training, only a great deal of patients. John may not have been a sociopathic genius, but he knew that being patient was hardly a characteristic unique to him.

John wasn't doubting Sherlock's fondness towards him. He knew their friendship was meaningful to the consulting detective even if he pretended it wasn't. The issue Mycroft brought up did bother him, however, to the point where it was all he could think about. If Mycroft was playing mind games here, he was definitely winning. The next thing he knew, he was home at Baker Street sitting in his chair staring off into space. He realized that, having walked into the room on auto-pilot, he had forgotten to take his jacket off.

"What happened?" Sherlock's voice startled John from across the room. He must have been standing there, observing John silently, this entire time.

"What?"

"You're home late and now you're being uncharacteristically introspective, something happened."

"You're, erm, brother kidnapped me."

Sherlock began to walk the length of the room in a way not unsimilar to his habbit of pacing while trying to unravel the mind of a particularly brilliant criminal."Excellent! What did he say?"

"Excellent?" Once again, John was experiencing the all too familiar feeling of having no idea, at all, what was going on.

"Yes, I've been expecting this for some time, ever since the day after we met, in fact."

"So you anticipated that he was going to kidnap me again?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't think to warn me that this was going happen?"

"Honestly John, I didn't know when it was going to happen. It could have happened at any time. Would it really have made you feel better if I had warned you on your first day in Baker Street that he was going to do this at some unknown time in the future?"

"I don't know, ma-" His 'maybe' was cut off by a wave of Sherlock's hand.

"It doesn't matter now. I didn't say anything and that certainly can't be changed. Just what did he say, John?" Sherlock stopped his pacing directly in front of where John was sitting, placing his hands on either arm of the chair and leaning into his friend's personal space.

"He didn't say anything really, just asked me several questions that he knew I didn't know the answer to."

"Questions about us? About our relationship?" Sherlock inquired very intensely. John was slightly uncomfortable with the combination of Sherlock's close proximity to his person and the slightly maniacal expression on the man's face. He decided that it was best not to mention it, however, and simply answered the question.

"Sort of, yeah."

Sherlock pushed away from John's chair and resumed pacing. "Good. That means I know what he's doing."

"What is he doing?"

"You'll find out soon, when he kidnaps you again."

"Oh, warning me this time are you?" The sarcasm in John's voice was so powerful it could almost be seen by the naked eye.

"Righteous indignation does not suit you, John. When he does kidnap you all will be explained, I promise. Now here is what I need you to do…"


	3. John is Mine, Get Your Own

A/N: This chapter was so fun to write. Sherlock has a really long monologue and I'm not entirely sure how in character it is. Feedback would be appreciated. As I said there is no Lestrade yet, a fact that is seriously making me sad. By the way, reviews make me totally happy. Just so you know.

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><p>Everything had gone according to Mycroft's plan, as far as he could tell. The kidnapping of Dr. Watson had gone off without a hitch. A seed of doubt had almost certainly been planted into poor John's mind. Now it only remained for that seed to grow. John would treat Sherlock differently for a time, and it wouldn't be long before the question came out. Why was Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, interesting in being friends with plain old John Watson? Sherlock would be horrified that John had questioned this for even a second and would explain everything, erasing any lingering questions John might have had. Then, Mycroft would kidnap John one last time, and with a short interview all his confusion would be eradicated. This was what Mycroft intended would happen, what actually did happen is a different story. For all his observation, Mycroft underestimated both his brother's skills of deduction and the depths of John's trust in his best friend. As it was, Sherlock knew exactly what his older brother was up to, and John was more than willing to blindly follow Sherlock into virtually any scheme imaginable.<p>

Mycroft was oblivious to both of these little problems and proceeded as he had planned. He diligently watched the CCTV footage for weeks, waiting until it was apparent that the issue had been voiced between the two flatmates. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock had recently decided that he wasn't leaving the flat for anything other than work, and Mycroft didn't get the chance to see the two men together for quite awhile. His patience was eventually rewarded when Sherlock got called in by Scotland Yard a few weeks later. It was easy to tell by looking at John and Sherlock that everything was normal between the two of them. As Mycroft watched the two of them giggling like school girls at the crime scene he did not doubt that his plan was working perfectly. John showed no uneasiness at all in his demeanour. No, it was clear that there had been a conversation about this most recent kidnapping, and that meant that John now had the information that Mycroft desired. Now he would abduct John one last time, and he would finally have his answers. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

It may seem to the readers of this story that it would have been easier for Mycroft simply to ask his brother these questions himself. After all, playing with Dr. Watson's mind should only be used as a last resort. Rest assured, dear readers, that this plan was Mycroft's only option. Sherlock had never given his older brother a straight answer in his life, and this instance would have been no different. It would not have been uncharacteristic of the younger Holmes to deliberately withhold information from Mycroft simply to annoy him. John, however, was good at getting answers from the detective. Sherlock would not withhold information of this nature from John if the doctor was asking questions, of this Mycroft was positive. This was the only course of action left for Mycroft to take. Sherlock knew this. He had predicted this from the very beginning, and that is why Mycroft's plan was doomed to failure. Sherlock knew his brother's motives for the interview with John. Why, he probably understood the situation even better than Mycroft did. So, when John was taken hostage for the third time, Sherlock was ready.

Mycroft was still blissfully unaware of his brother's perceptiveness and was congratulating himself on a job well done. He had arranged for John to be brought to a nice Italian restaurant. It was the least he could do after all the mental anguish he surely had put the man through. When John arrived Mycroft greeted him cheerfully.

"Good day, Dr. Watson. Have a seat." John complied readily, and Mycroft couldn't help but notice what a stark difference this was from their last encounter. "You seem much more at ease today."

"Do I?" There was a smile on John's lips. That was decidedly odd. Something was off here, but Mycroft was at a loss as to what it could be.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the smaller man, and then suddenly it clicked. "Sherlock predicted that I would be detaining you again, didn't he?" When John nodded his head affirmatively Mycroft sighed. "Ah well, I suppose that doesn't conflict with my plans too much."

"Oh, I don't know about that." John practically smirked, his eyes looking at something near the door of the restaurant. A horrible feeling of impending doom installed itself in the pit of Mycroft's stomach. He turned to look, and his worst fears were confirmed. There stood Sherlock, coat, scarf, and all, grinning from ear to ear in triumph. Mycroft was furious. Not only had Sherlock deduced his plan, but now he was going to ruin it just because he could. How typical. Sherlock sauntered over to their table and grabbed himself a seat next to John.

"Hello Mycroft." Sherlock leaned his elbows on the table, leaning forward, mocking his brother with his smile. "Surprised to see me?"

"That's one word for it."

"Honestly Mycroft, you weren't exactly stealthy about this whole kidnapping thing. John texted me when Anthea picked him up, and from there my homeless network tracked the car down within minutes. Did you not even think that I might interrupt this little meeting? Surely you knew I would figure out what you were doing."

"I confess, I didn't think you would. My mistake. You were not too concerned the first time I 'kidnapped' your Dr. Watson. I believed that you would jump to the conclusion that I was trying to undermine your relationship and think no more of the incident."

"Well, I certainly would have thought that were the case if it wasn't for the fact that I have been expecting this." Mycroft raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Oh yes, I've known what you were up to from the very first night."

"And what is he doing exactly?" John spoke up. He still had not been informed what was going on, and was, needless to say, very confused.

"He is trying to understand me," Sherlock replied, his eyes never leaving Mycroft. "He doesn't understand why, of all the people in the world, I have chosen you as my companion."

"Well, I don't really understand that either, Sherlock." John stated. Mycroft's eyes widened. So Sherlock hadn't explained things to John, and yet they had looked so at ease together. It didn't make sense.

"I know, John," Sherlock turned to face his friend. "Thank you for waiting all these weeks for an explanation. I promised that I would explain everything and now I shall." He turned back to Mycroft. "You want to know, why John Watson?"

Mycroft didn't answer out loud, but inclined his head, indicating to his brother that he should proceed with his explanation. Privately, Mycroft couldn't believe what was happening. Sherlock was explaining something to his brother. Not lording the desired information over his head or even denying him the information out of spite, simply explaining.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and began to deliver a speech of an explanation in the same manner he used to give deductions at a crime scene. "From the moment I met John I could tell he was different than the others, a fact which I'm sure was not lost on you. He was a doctor, an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp. His reaction to my initial deductions about him was...unique. He did not run away screaming as many have done before. In fact, he barely even seemed phased. Being a soldier, he holds a tight control over his emotions, a characteristic I find much more appealing than the open book that most people are. He was living on his army pension in London, looking for a flatshare. I knew from his phone that he had family, a sibling as I deduced, and yet he had not gone to them for financial help. Clearly there were bad feelings between two of them, so already I felt a kinship with him. We both have difficult family relationships. These deductions, plus the fact that he is not a total idiot, were what possessed me to ask him to come to the crime scene. At that time I never could have predicted that our relationship would grow from there, or that we would even have a relationship. I wasn't _friends_ with any of my previous flatmates. The events of that night, however, were illuminating.

John was neither frightened nor made envious by my deductions, but rather he declared them amazing. I found myself enjoying his presence at the crime scene, and expected that he would go back to Baker Street when I left to look for the case. He didn't seem the type to leave an adventure halfway through. When he was not there I began to question my previous assumptions, maybe John would not want to move in with the world's only consulting detective. I found that that notion made me feel...sad. So, I texted him, if he was the man I thought he was I knew he would come running at the mention of danger. He did come, and that was when I noticed that you, my dear brother, you had broken your pattern as well. You had kidnapped John before he moved in with me, instead of after like you did with the others. From that moment I began to piece the puzzle together. When you made a second appearance that night, well, I knew what you were doing even if you didn't completely understand it."

"And how, may I ask, did you know I was going to talk with John again?"

"I knew your motivation, Mycroft, the reason why you were so desperate to understand our relationship. It wasn't simply because you couldn't stand not knowing something. Oh no, this was something a great deal more than that. You, brother, were jealous. Not that you realised that at the time, but I can see by your face that you realise it now, don't you? It's not that you envy me John. No, you envy our connection. John completes me. He is everything I'm not. There were so many things in life that I never experienced until I met him. I need him as much as he needs me. On the very first day we did a case together, I cured him of his psychosomatic limp and he shot a man to save my life. I wasn't looking for a friend. I didn't plan it at all, it just happened."

Up to this point Sherlock had been directing his words at Mycroft, but now he turned his attention John. "John is my best friend, my only friend. He understands normal things like people and emotions that I never had exposure to previously. John puts up with me when I'm bored or when I accidentally break some social rule of sensitivity. He never laughs at me; he treats me like an actual person, not like a machine. He makes sure I eat and sleep, he takes care of me. John is always there, to help me, to protect me. He is by my side when I'm on a case or when I'm just sitting at home. I have come to rely on him more than I ever could have imagined I would. Without him life would be near impossible." Sherlock and John's eyes were locked. John had a huge grin on his face, and Sherlock couldn't help but mimic him. The moment was ruined, as Mycroft loudly cleared his throat. Sherlock glared at his brother, his eyes like ice.

"It is the harmony I have found in my life with John that you envy. You were so desperate to understand why I chose John, not because you questioned the choice, but because you knew it was the right choice. You have always longed for a friend to share your life with, Mycroft, even when we were younger. You have been searching for the right person for years, but you are insufferably picky. Naturally, when I found someone before you did you were shocked. I suppose you probably thought I would spend my life alone, friendless. I know that's what I believed. This thing with John, our friendship, came along when I least expected. There is no secret reason I chose him over others. I didn't 'choose him', our friendship grew naturally. It wasn't something I had control over." Sherlock leaned forward, his attitude suddenly becoming threatening. "I am telling you now, Mycroft, and this is the only time I'm going to say it. John is mine, get your own. Understand? Good. John and I will take our leave then."

John made a disappointed sound, "I was hoping I'd get to order some food first."

At that point Sherlock was already pushing himself out of his chair and making his way towards the door, "Lestrade texted me while you were being abducted by my brother. We have a case!" John sighed and moved to follow the detective, leaving Mycroft sitting alone at the table his thoughts a hurricane.

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><p>AN: Not really sure how in character this chapter was. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist the Johnlock shipper inside of me. Did you notice that I snuck Lestrade in there for about one second? Yeah, that made me happy. Unfortunately updates are about to become significantly less frequent. The only reason I got these few chapters up in such a short amount of time is because I'm currently on spring break. I'm only saying don't get used to this, because it's not going to last.


	4. A Very Human Weakness

A/N: I was so tempted to skip ahead to the Lestrade part of this story. I was so very tempted, but I did not give in. I resisted my urges. So here's another Mycrofty chapter. Yup, I just made a new word, Mycrofty. Lestrade will be in the next one, I promise. Just so you know, reviews make me extremely happy, just saying. On with the story.

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><p>The most powerful man in the world was invisible. He existed only in cameras and whispers. If you didn't know about him, chances are it was because you weren't important enough. His existence was divulged on a strictly need to know basis. He often claimed that he occupied a minor position in the British Government. It would perhaps be more accurate to say that he was the British Government, when he wasn't too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis that is. Easily the most indispensable man in England, every department of the government reported back to him. He was the unknown, unseen puppet master behind the stage, pulling all the strings and making all the decisions. His impact didn't stop there either. He was almost universally involved in world politics. Many countries were under his influence, and countless others consulted him. This was the most significant man in politics, period. This man was Mycroft Holmes.<p>

Mycroft was on top of the world. Anything he wanted could be his with just one word. A level higher than royalty, he had achieved a greater rank than any other man in the world. By all accounts, he should have been completely self satisfied. Instead, contentedness, for him, was elusive. Mycroft felt empty. It wasn't that he was unhappy. Oh no, he was generally pleased with his place in life. There was simply something missing. It was like there was a hole in his chest and none of his many accomplishments or possessions was the right shape to fill it. At first he ignored it, but every day the metaphorical hole got bigger and bigger, until it was impossible to avoid. Mycroft was lonely. It was understandable, this lonesomeness. Most people, most normal people, had friends, family, people in their lives to talk to and spend time with. Mycroft did not have friends. There were colleagues, subordinates, and the gentlemen at the Diogenes Club, but none of those could truly be considered friends. After all, who could possibly be worthy of befriending the British Government itself. Establishing a relationship with Mycroft would have been a daunting task, and it was no wonder that no one had accomplished it to date.

As was only natural, not many people felt at ease in Mycroft's presence. Everything about him was imposing and dignified, often times provoking awkwardness in others if not outright fear. Plus, when it came to making friends, the eternal presence of the umbrella was not helpful, nor was the fact that Mycroft's wardrobe consisted entirely of three pieced suits, no exceptions. If you stripped away all the illustrious titles and responsibilities, Mycroft was a significantly odd person. As a child, his peculiarity had resulted in rejection by his peers, and, over time, he learned to hide away the human inside and push away anyone who came close to knowing him for the person he was. The system worked, he no longer was faced with the rebuff of society. However, this also meant any friendships that might have been developed in the past were now non-existent. Of course, this didn't bother Mycroft. He had never seen the value of friendships. Humans were flawed and prone to failure. Human relationships didn't last, they were always broken over time one way or another. Whether it's by death or rejection, friendship always ends eventually, and Mycroft was determined not to let the absence of something so transient bother him. As determined as he was, even the man behind the British Government was human, and the feeling still came.

As for family, Mycroft's only family at this point was his younger brother, Sherlock, and their relationship was dysfunctional, to say the least. Lord knows the elder Holmes brother had tried with his sibling, but the petty arguments of the past had been magnified over time, escalating to the point where the two brothers utterly loathed each other. Any attempt at a reconciliation was futile. Sherlock was simply determined that the feud should continue, and there was very little that Mycroft could do about it. That didn't mean that he no longer looked out for his younger brother. No, Mycroft was still very much involved in his brother's future, simply more surreptitiously than when they were children. He found, however, that his brother was needing his help less and less now that John Watson had been added into the equation. He was very slowly but surely losing the last true human connection he had left and it was starting to affect him. Without Sherlock to distract him it was becoming harder and harder to avoid how his isolation was hurting him. If he was being honest, this was the reason he had been so fixated on the secret behind John and Sherlock's relationship. He needed a diversion from any introspection. Perhaps he had also been _a bit_ jealous, but that had not been the motivation for his actions. Mycroft Holmes did not act out of jealousy. He may have been desolate, but was above that at least.

It was jarring to return to his eerily empty mansion after his encounter with Sherlock at the restaurant. He supposed he could have gone back to the office, but there was no way he was getting any work done after conversation like that. The idea that his brother could read him so well with such apparent ease was terrifying. The insightful accusations of jealousy and lonesomeness had hit home, and Mycroft found he could no longer ignore this subject. Obviously he was going through a personal crisis and it needed to be resolved, now before it became a serious issue. This contemptible human emotion, this desire for companionship, was a weakness. A weakness he was going to discard if it was the last thing he did. If there was anyone in this world who could not afford to depend on another person for happiness it was unquestionably Mycroft. His independence was not only important to his own piece of mind, but it was also important to the fate of the nation itself. If the British Government was ever rendered dysfunctional due to Mycroft's loneliness, well, to say that situation would be disastrous is a major understatement. This made it all the more unfortunate that there was no obvious solution to this problem.

Mycroft wearily made his way into his home. He gently placed his umbrella into a holder by the door and sighed heavily. On a normal day he might have taken this opportunity to visit the Diogenes Club. The quiet environment was comforting and peaceful, and Mycroft often found that it calmed his nerves. Today, however, he could tell that going out would not help him at all. Instead, he made his way up the grandiose staircase slowly, step by step. He had bought this enormous house not because he needed the space, but for keeping up appearances. Having the position that he did, it was expected that he would entertain. It was important that he held the respect of the politicians he worked with, and impressing them with blatant displays of wealth was the easiest way to do so. The resulting upscale parties that had been thrown required a manor house complete with a ballroom and library. So, he had bought a large, impressive mansion that was inconveniently placed out of town. It was far from ideal, but it served his purpose. He usually slept at the office anyway, not having any reason to leave.

Now, having made his way to the top floor, he remembered why he never came here. There was so much unfilled space, so many unfilled rooms, it was suffocating. Every sound he made was magnified, echoing through the house, making it seem bigger than it actually was. He began to regret ordering the house's staff to stay out of his way when he was at home, for the apparent emptiness of the house was distinctly unnerving. He walked to his bedroom, beholding the four poster, king size bed that sat in the middle of it. The room was so big, so empty, so…lonely. Mycroft practically groaned in realization. This new emotion, lonesomeness, had not sprung up from nowhere. No, he had done this to himself. This mansion, so isolated, was merely congruent with the rest of his life. He had, unwittingly, isolated himself from the rest of the world to the point of unhealthiness. This was all his own fault, entirely, and now he didn't know what to do. Looking around himself at the dismal bedroom he knew what his first step would be.

Mycroft was going to move to the city.


	5. DI Lestrade Enters the Stage

**A/N: Lestrade is here everyone! He is finally here! I am so excited! Alright, I need to calm down. The Mystrade is coming. It's almost here. If my story stays on track the two of them should finally have contact next chapter.**

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><p>Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, the best of Scotland Yard, was at the top of his game. His team had brought in more criminals in the past years than the all the other detective inspectors combined. While he would have loved to take all the credit, his success was mostly due to a certain consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was a sociopathic genius who liked to solve crimes for fun. Lestrade was the police officer desperate enough to put up with him. Being considered the best of the police force meant that Lestrade got handed the most difficult cases, so most of the time he was desperate indeed. As much as Sherlock liked to claim otherwise, the criminals of London were actually very clever, too clever for their own good. The fact is, the more difficult a case was the more likely it was that it would be solved. Uncomplicated crimes were given to lower level inspectors and many of those went unsolved. Complicated crimes, on the other hand, were given to Lestrade, who would then collaborate with Sherlock. Those crimes were nearly always solved.<p>

In theory, Sherlock seemed like a gift from above. He would swoop in like an avenging angel, solving the crime and catching the criminal, oftentimes before the night was out. Then, after that, he would insist that his name wasn't mentioned in the police reports, leaving DI Lestrade all the praise from his superiors. Yes, Sherlock sounded absolutely perfect, but, from experience, anyone on the police force can tell you that he is no angel. If anything, he's the opposite, sent straight from hell. Out of all the DI's, Lestrade was the only one who would even work with Sherlock, and that was only because he was the most desperate. The consulting detective was rude, arrogant, condescending, and honestly just a nightmare to work with. It didn't help any that he also refused to follow any police protocol. Greg couldn't tell you how many times he had been called in by his superiors to answer for Sherlock's unorthodox methods. If it weren't for Sherlock's connections in high places he surely would have been locked up in jail by now for taking the law into his own hands. John Watson didn't help with that at all. Sure the ex-army doctor made Sherlock easier to deal with on a personal level, but it had become worryingly likely for any criminal that threatened Sherlock to end up with a bullet in their chest. Lestrade didn't know how long it would take his superiors to notice this, or how he was going to cover up for John when they did notice. He would cross that bridge when he came to it, but for now he was trying not to think about it.

Currently, Lestrade was sitting in his office doing paperwork, trying to keep his eyes open. He wasn't sleeping so well these days. Everything was simply so stressful. Work was piling up. It was true what they said, crime never slept. Keeping up with the endless stream of murders and thefts was a intimidating task, and it wasn't unusual for Lestrade to find himself pulling all-nighters down at the station. Maybe he would sleep better now that the divorce was all wrapped up and the dreadful custody battle was drawing to a close. Three months ago his wife, Amy, had left him taking their daughter, Laura, with her. Even though he had seen it coming it had still hurt. He and Amy had been having problems for years. His overwhelming work schedule had put far more strain on their relationship than it could handle. It wasn't long before Amy had begun seeing other people, on and off. At first Lestrade hadn't noticed, but when he inevitably did he hadn't say anything. What could he have said anyhow? Sorry for loving my job more than you, please stop cheating on me? No, talking wouldn't have helped in the least. When they decided to have a baby, however, she had vowed that she would be faithful. Laura was beautiful and her parents loved her more than anything in the world. Amy threw herself into her motherly duties, trying for the perfect family life that everyone wanted. It lasted for about three years. Then she met Kyle.

Kyle was everything Greg wasn't. He was younger, happier, less intense, never stressed out, and he was there, he was always there. Lestrade was always at work, and when he wasn't he was talking or thinking about work. Amy loved her family and she wanted to keep it together, but this simply wasn't working. Kyle was always ready to talk, even just about nothing. It was such a refreshing change. When she was with him it was like everything was better, like she wasn't doing something completely terrible by being with him. When she returned home to her husband and toddler, that's when the guilt came. Amy was a good person really, not the type to betray the people closest to her. The remorse she felt at her behavior was very real, and very severe. She knew it was her fault that her marriage was falling down around her ears. She knew the blame belonged solely with her, and she couldn't live with it. So she did the only thing she knew how to do at that point, she blamed her husband. After all, it wasn't her fault if she got lonely and turned to Kyle for comfort, was it? She began to criticize Greg in everything he did, constantly baiting him, trying to start up a fight. He bore her constant judgments with great patients, refusing to give her a reason to hate him. Over time, as Lestrade remained unresponsive to her continued condemnations, the accusations worsened and all three members of the Lestrade family were miserable. When Amy began to bring Greg's sexuality into the issue that was the final straw.

Amy had known Lestrade was bisexual when she married him. In fact, he had been dating a man when they first met. She had assured him that his sexual orientation would never become an issue between them, but she had also said that about his job. When she began to insinuate that he didn't love her because of her gender, that he was actually gay not bi, he had snapped. It had been a short fight, more loud than violent, but it had given her the ammunition she had been looking for. Within the hour she had packed and left, taking Laura with her. She had gone to her mothers. Greg wondered why even bother with the pretense, why not just go move in with her new boyfriend? They both knew she was really leaving him for Kyle, why pretend otherwise? The divorce he had expected, what he hadn't expected was Amy fighting him for full custody of their daughter. Laura was Lestrade's everything, and the fact that Amy was trying to take her away from him made him question why they had even been together in the first place. In the end, Lestrade would only be allowed to see his daughter every other weekend. For the family man that Lestrade was at heart the whole thing was devastating.

Everyday was an up hill battle, with Lestrade relying on caffeine just to keep himself awake. Today was no exception. He scrubbed his eyes, trying to wipe out the bleariness brought on by sleep deprivation. He hadn't received any Sherlock-worthy cases for quite a few weeks, and the consulting detective was starting to get restless. Lestrade was expecting a minor, Sherlock-invoked disaster to hit at any given moment. Sherlock could be so impatient. Didn't he understand that Lestrade was suffering too? Sure, the low profile cases were easier to solve, but the paperwork was so tedious. God, it was dull. Who said that only geniuses could get bored? Lestrade wanted anything, a murder, a break in, anything. Never mind the division; anything was better than this monotonous paperwork.

"The freak's gotten himself and his boyfriend arrested," Sally Donovan had materialized at his doorway, as if in answer to his silent prayer.

"What, again?" Greg asked dubiously. This time would make four arrests in the last two months, and Sherlock wasn't even working a case at the moment. "What has he done now?"

"He was caught breaking and entering a woman's flat when he thought she wasn't home. The woman snuck up on him and managed to lock him and John in the bathroom. She called us, reporting two men trying rob her house." She eyed Greg warily as he stood and made his way towards the door. "You can't seriously be trying to think up a way to get him off the hook again. He has crossed the line this time, you can't deny it."

Lestrade bit his lip indecisively, "I'm just going to talk to him." Sally rolled her eyes, exasperated, moving over so her boss could brush past her.

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><p>Several weeks had passed since the fateful encounter at the restaurant and Mycroft was officially moved to London. He looked around at his new flat with satisfaction. It wasn't too big, but it was classy. He had retained ownership of his mansion for those upscale parties, but now he didn't have to live there. Honestly, he didn't know why he hadn't done this in the first place, bought a flat in London. Sleeping at the office had been convenient, but having a flat here was exponentially more comfortable. Plus, he now felt as though he was finally doing something about his problems, and, truthfully, it made all the difference. Mycroft felt better than he had in months. He settled back in the biggest armchair in the main room, sighing contentedly. His phone beeped, alerting him that he had received a text. Reading it, it he didn't even bother to try holding back an eye roll. Sherlock had managed to get himself arrested by the police, again. Well, there was no point in staying at home while there was something more fun to do. Mycroft stood and texted Anthea instructions. Taunting his brother over this was going to be so much fun.<p>

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><p><strong>AN: So, as you may have noticed, I gave Lestrade a bit of a back story. I felt it was necessary to establish where he was coming from. I hope you, anyone reading this, find it acceptable. If not I won't force it on you, but I was planning on having Lestrade's daughter, Laura, be in the story later on. I feel like it will be a great way to explore Lestrade as a character, which I haven't been able to do very much so far. What do you think, should I write a couple Laura chapters later on? Yea or nay?**


	6. I Got My Scarf

A/N: I confess I know absolutely nothing about laws and arrests and police work, so if I get something wrong be lenient. Also, a heads up, John gets a little angry in this one. Sorry if it's overdone, but I found it adorable in my head and, well, just wrote it down. It's not my fault that he's one third jam, one third kittens, and one third rage, is it?

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><p>John could not believe he was in jail again. It was absolutely unbelievable! He had never been arrested before he met Sherlock, ever. That had ever been Harry's area. Now, it seemed that John couldn't go a week without breaking a least one minor law, if not several major ones. It was part of the package when it came to Sherlock, and John accepted that. Maybe he accepted it, but that didn't mean he liked it. This was the part he hated the most, being in jail. Perhaps the fact that this was his biggest complaint showed just how far John's moral compass had drifted, but he didn't care. He was too busy being angry at Sherlock to waste time worrying about his slow but steady moral corruption. For this was all Sherlock's fault, the whole thing, and if the prick thought for one second that he was going to let this go he had another thing coming. John wasn't forgetting this one, not ever. Not even if the big stupid git got down on his knees and begged John to forgive him, not even then.<p>

John was sitting on one of the holding cell's two cots with his arms crossed resolutely. He was going to be furious, he was, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it. Sherlock, on the other hand, was leaning indifferently against the wall, effectively ignoring John's stewing. They stayed immobilized like this for God knows how long until, eventually, the doors opened and in walked Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade himself.

"So, what's this I hear about you two breaking and entering?" He was met with silence. John was, apparently, too occupied with his rage to even comprehend that he had just been asked a question, and Sherlock was remaining aloof, refusing to even look at the DI. "Sherlock? John? Come on lads, I have actual work I could be doing right now, but instead I'm in here mothering the two of you. The least you can do is acknowledge my presence."

Sherlock slowly turned his head, shifting his icy glare to Lestrade's face. Then that was it, nothing else in the room changed. Greg shifted uncomfortably as the silence prevailed and Sherlock's stared him down unwaveringly. "That's it then? No explanation?"

"It was all Sherlock's fault!" John finally spoke, his still crossed arms displaying his long-lasting boiling temper.

"Well, yes, I would have thought that was a given," Lestrade retorted dryly. Sherlock huffed and returned his eyes to the wall, obviously deciding that Lestrade was not worthy of his acknowledgment. "Look, breaking and entering is a serious crime and unless you've got some answers for me, I don't think there's anything I can do to help you."

John's head shot up, his eyes full of panic. Yes, he and Sherlock had been arrested before, but no charges had ever been pressed successfully, largely due to Lestrade's influence in the police system. "What do you mean nothing you can do?"

"Well, you're not working a case right now are you? And you did break the law, for no apparent reason as far as I can tell. I don't really see what I can do for you." Here the DI looked pointedly at Sherlock, hinting that now would be a good time to explain just what the hell was going on here anyway.

The consulting detective sighed dramatically, "As I explained to the officer who arrested us, it was not 'breaking and entering'. The door was unlocked! Neither were we attempting to 'rob' the woman, as we clearly passed any items of value in that flat without so much as touching them. We were merely attempting to get to a particular second floor window that happened to be in her flat, and if she had stopped to ask us what we were doing there before calling in the police she certainly would not have acted in the way that she had. Locking us in the bathroom, ridiculous!"

"She's a single woman, home alone, and two strange men frantically run into her flat! What do you expect her to do if not call the police?" John snapped. Yes, the arms were still crossed. He was still enraged.

"Why was it so important to get to the bloody window anyway?" Lestrade was still half hoping that at the end of this arduous interview there would be some reasonable explanation found, but it was a dim, quickly fading hope.

"It was imperative." Sherlock replied, as if that statement explained everything.

"Imperative why, Sherlock? You have to use your words. I can't read your mind." Sherlock refused to answer the exasperated police officer, opting to stare at the wall with intense concentration instead. Lestrade turned to the other man, his brows raised inquisitively. "John?"

John hung his head in his hands, speaking through his fingers. "We were walking down the street, it was windy. The next thing I knew, the idiot was running into the building, shouting that we had to get to that window. I didn't know what was going on or I wouldn't have gone along with it."

"Continue," Lestrade prompted. At this point he knew there was no reasonable explanation, this was Sherlock they were talking about, after all.

"It wasn't until we reached the bathroom window that I realized. It was windy you see, and Sherlock was wearing a scarf."

"Right," Lestrade nodded as if in comprehension. "Wait, no, I don't see."

"His scarf got caught in the wind and ended up in a tree. A tree that happened to grow right next to that bathroom window. Are you getting it now?" John was still upset about the whole thing, and his tone was excessively sarcastic. Lestrade didn't notice John's tone very much, however. He was purely too taken aback by this new information to register much else.

"Seriously?" He looked at Sherlock, who was still seemingly enraptured by the wall judging by the level of scrutiny he was giving it. "You broke into someone's flat because your scarf was stuck in a tree?"

"Well, I got my scarf, didn't I?" Sherlock answered, finally turning to look at Lestrade. The consulting detective looked so ridiculously proud of himself that Lestrade probably would have burst out laughing if the situation hadn't been quite so reprehensible.

"Sherlock, you broke into someone's flat to rescue a scarf. That is most certainly not a good enough reason. Why didn't you just, I don't know, climb the tree? Cause, if I'm not mistaken, that would have avoided this whole mess all together!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade! I am wearing a suit and John's shoulder is giving him trouble. Neither of us is at all equipped for tree climbing! What would give you such a notion? Honestly, and they call you the best of Scotland Yard!"

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. It was at times like these he wondered how he, out of all of Scotland Yard, had become the DI who dealt with Sherlock. "Well, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do here. The charges are fair. You were undeniably breaking the law. And," he raised his voice as John began to protest, "even if I could help, I wouldn't. I think this will be a good lesson for you, both of you. John, you need to start taking more control over the situation so we can avoid instances like this. And you, Sherlock, you need to stop being so bloody annoying."

"Excellent advice, Inspector," a new voice sounded from the door. It was Mycroft, and, unsurprisingly, no one had noticed him come in. Lestrade didn't even bother asking how he got into the holding cell, he Mycroft he could do anything.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled with pure hatred.

The elder Holmes gave him a sarcastic smile. "Brother. Breaking the law while not even on a case? Have we reached that level of boredom already? You should have called me, Sherlock. You know I always have a few jobs set to the side for you, just in case."

"I didn't go out with the intention of breaking the law."

"Didn't you?"

"It was an accident, as both John and Lestrade will testify!"

Sherlock's annoyance only proved to make Mycroft happier. Oh yes, Mycroft was enjoying this, if only it could last forever. "Accident or not, my dear Sherlock, you still broke the law. And while your scarf story is accepted as fact here in this room, do you really think it would hold up in court?"

Following this statement was something resembling the mother of all staring contests, but was more akin to a wordless conversation between the two brothers. Half of DI Lestrade was genuinely amused by this circumstance, having never before witnessed the Holmes brothers interact. The other half of him felt uncomfortable standing there in the prevailing silence, and was trying to think of a way to excuse himself from the room without making things even more awkward. It didn't help any that John had resumed the I-am-furious-with-Sherlock position yet once again, so no moral support would be received there. His dilemma did not last long, however, because, as the wordless standoff drew to a close, Sherlock heaved a thunderous sigh of defeat.

"What do you want? If it's a case I'm only doing one. I'll not be you're puppet."

"No, no, of course not. I never had any hopes that I would get that much out of this. No, there is just one small matter in which you're assistance would be invaluable. If you're willing to help that is." From the look Mycroft gave his younger brother, Lestrade was certain that he did not need Sherlock for this 'small matter'. The older sibling was doing this only to irritate the consulting detective. And, oh was it working. Lestrade, who only a half hour ago had been on the verge of falling asleep at his desk out of boredom, found it both entertaining and hilarious.

"I am…willing." Sherlock spat the words out as if they caused him pain. At this, Mycroft's expression turned positively smug. Lestrade tried unsuccessfully to hold back a snicker at the brothers' antics. They had to have the strangest sibling rivalry ever to exist, it was so ludicrous. Even John, through his anger, was smirking a little. Sherlock glared at the three of them, huffing with indignation.

"Well, now that that's sorted, I'd better be getting back to work." Lestrade took the opportunity to excuse himself. Maybe if he got to his office fast enough he could lock the door before Sally caught wind that Sherlock was being let off the hook, again.

He had no such luck. The moment he stepped out of the door he was flanked by Donovan and, you guessed it, Anderson. They both were livid and Lestrade could tell he was in for another one of their Sherlock oriented conversations.

"The orders just got sent in for the freaks release. I can't believe you helped him! He was so clearly in the wrong!" Donovan began.

"I can assure you I had nothing to do with- Wait, the orders were sent in already?" That was quick, even for Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock had only agreed to the bargain, what, two minutes previously?

"The email was sent like ten minutes ago." Anderson joined into the discussion not-so-eloquently.

So Mycroft had sent the orders in advance. That meant that, during the entire encounter Lestrade had just witnessed, Mycroft had been bluffing, having already given the orders for Sherlock's release. Lestrade was not surprised. This was not his first time meeting the great Mycroft Holmes. Despite the fact that the last time they met was when Mycroft had kidnapped him for intimidation purposes, Lestrade had seen enough of the man to know that Mycroft was capable of anything.

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><p>AN: I do get insecure about my writing, like extremely, and believe me when I say that constructive criticism would be a godsend. Even if you just tell me what you liked or what you disliked in the chapter that would be awesome. So, yeah, review. Please? (We've reached the point where I beg for reviews. Yeah, that's not pathetic at all.) The next chapter will contain a flashback of Mycroft kidnapping Lestrade, so get ready for that.


	7. A First Encounter

A/N: A quick note, this starts as a flashback. I think it is self explanatory, but if there is any confusion don't be afraid to ask. I would once again like to assert that I know nothing about police work whatsoever. If I get things wrong, which I no doubt will, please forgive me.

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><p>The first time the consulting detective showed up at one of DI Lestrade's crime scenes was not at all the life changing experience you might have expected. It wasn't the first time the police officer had heard the name Sherlock Holmes. The man wasn't a full time consulting detective yet, but Sherlock had dabbled enough in detective work to become something of a celebrity around the office. This may have been Lestrade's first real encounter with Holmes, but he had heard an adequate amount of stories about the eccentric man to know what he was like. Or at least that was what he thought before actually meeting him. After meeting him, however, Lestrade was forced to acknowledge that Sherlock Holmes was not at all what he anticipated. The other DI's liked to make Sherlock out as a mad man, a kook. They described Sherlock's powers of deduction as unnatural or disturbing, claiming that Sherlock himself was a freak of nature. Upon meeting him, Lestrade saw the deductions for what they truly were, nothing short of spectacular. This realization wasn't come to on their first meeting, however. No, things hadn't gone nearly that smoothly.<p>

Lestrade was new at this, he had only been promoted to the rank of detective inspector a short while before, and being in charge at a crime scene was still a bit nerve wracking. This particular crime would turn out to be the foremost of a string of murders that would make up the first serial killer case he investigated as a detective inspector. Even if he had known this at the time, in the freezing rain at one in the bloody morning, the knowledge wouldn't have excited him much. The body wasn't a pretty sight, and it was just as well that Lestrade hadn't had time for breakfast before leaving. It was in the living room of an abandoned house; apparently a neighbor had seen lights on and called the police. The woman looked as if she had been stabbed forty-seven times, give or take a few. Lestrade gave strict orders that no one was to leave or enter the street for at least the next few hours. All witnesses would need to be questioned, a difficult job in such a crowded neighborhood. It was always a difficult task sorting out the useful information from the extraneous, and this would almost certainly be made harder with as many witnesses as they had. There were, of course, going to be those people who _thought_ they saw something, but, in reality, simply had overactive imaginations. Lestrade was counting himself lucky that, as detective inspector, he would only have to question the principal witnesses. They had barely begun to examine the body, however, when there was a disturbance outside.

The constables guarding the perimeter outside of the house were not enjoying themselves. They were tired and soaking as it was, quite literally, pouring rain, and the lucky police officers were standing outside, guarding the crime scene. It was their own fault, they had signed up for the job after all. Being apart of the police force sounds quite glamorous on paper, but take it from these guys that it's not a fun job. These miserable, drenched people were the first that Sherlock Holmes encountered as he neared the crime scene. It is no surprise that the constables weren't exactly excited to see him. Many of them had dealt with Sherlock before, and him showing up was a clear sign that their day was about to get a whole lot worse.

Sherlock strut up to the yellow tape with all his usual arrogance, demanding to be let through the yellow tape. He claimed to have information pertinent to the ongoing investigation that could only be given to the detective inspector in person. The constables, of course, told him that he would have to contact the police with that information another way, seeing as the inspector was busy with other inquiries at the moment. They suggested he go and give his information to someone at Scotland Yard. Clearly, they were trying to be rid of him as soon as possible, and Sherlock, who could see this, was not to be discouraged from his goal. Four scathing deductions, one woman reduced to sobbing, and two narrowly avoided fist fights later, Sherlock had forced his way into the abandoned house where the crime had been committed. He pushed past a protesting Lestrade to get to the body. Apparently, the quick glance he got of the scene was all he needed in order to draw his conclusions, for he went quietly as the inspector had him removed from the house. Sherlock then left, swooping off into the night to God knows where. Lestrade was fairly perplexed by the whole thing, but quickly forgot the incident as two more murdered followed the first one.

By the fifth killing, Lestrade was at his wits end. It had been three weeks and still the police force hadn't got a clue who was behind it all. Greg's superiors were practically breathing down his neck, pressuring him to make an arrest. He knew he would get sacked if the case wasn't wrapped up in the next few days. So he did the unthinkable, something that prompted his colleagues to question his sanity. He called in Sherlock Holmes. He didn't call him in to work on the case, mind you. He called him in to question him. What exactly had Sherlock been doing at that first crime scene anyway? Perhaps the conceited eccentric truly did have important information, and they had been fools to send him away. If that were the case, then surely it was worth collaborating with the arrogant bastard in order to catch a criminal. One hour after Sherlock was brought into the police's confidence, the serial killer had been caught. One hour, that was all it took for Sherlock to solve the case that had stumped the whole of Scotland Yard for weeks. His mind worked faster than everyone else's, drawing accurate conclusions from limited information. It scared most people, frightened them that someone could read their innermost secrets by looking at the wrinkles in their clothing. Lestrade, on the other hand, valued Sherlock's abilities in a way that very few others ever had in the past. (Clearly this was a sign of the Detective Inspector's intelligence.)

A month or so later, Greg contacted Sherlock about a case for the second time. It was a triple homicide, and there was apparently no evidence to go on whatsoever. Sherlock showed up and solved the case in less then twenty minutes. Watching Sherlock had been amazing, the swift deductions literally leaving Lestrade speechless. That night, he wrapped up his paper work early, and decided to walk home for once, since he had the time. His daughter, Laura, had just been born, and things were going very well with the wife. Greg was honestly feeling good. A case wrapped up, all work related stress on hold for the moment, and a happy family to go home to, things seemed to be going just fine. Then, when he was about halfway home, looking in the reflection of a window he noticed a car on the road behind him moving at a suspiciously slow speed. He couldn't be sure, and really the idea was slightly ridiculous, but the car appeared to be tailing him. When he sped up, the car sped up. When he slowed down, the car slowed down. It truly did appear that someone was following him. Just to be sure, he suddenly stopped walking, dead in his tracks. In the reflection the car stopped too. There was no question now, he was being shadowed.

Lestrade began to walk quickly, trying to put distance between himself in the car. Feeling around in his pocket for his cell phone, he realized with great horror that he must have left it at the office. His perfect day disappearing before his eyes, he began to go over his options. If there was one thing he wasn't doing now, it was going home. There was no way that leading unknown, possibly lethal enemies home to his wife and new born child was a good idea under any circumstances. He took a turn that would start him on his way to the nearest police station. Having no idea who was in that car, he thought it was likely that he might need backup. He never got that far, however. His change of route alerted the stalkers that their prey was aware of their presence. The car sped up, and pulled next to Lestrade. The window rolled down and Lestrade found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun. It goes without saying that he got in the car. Gregory Lestrade was being kidnapped.

What reason anyone could have for kidnapping him was beyond Lestrade. He was hardly valued enough by the police force for anyone to hope to obtain a ransom by holding him hostage. God knew his wife couldn't afford to pay any money either. Surely this was a random abduction then. They just picked the first person they saw walking down the street. Perfect, that decreased his chances of living through this considerably. He wracked his brain, perhaps he could figure out a way to get out of this situation. Before he could formulate any plans, however, the car ride came to an abrupt end. Cold handcuffs secured Lestrade's hands behind his back, crushing any hopes he had of escape. Two burly men, the driver and the one who had held the gun earlier, man handled him out of the car. It was dusk, and no one noticed as the hand cuffed man was hustled from the car and into a building one the side of the road.

Wherever Greg had imagined he was being taken, this was not it. He was in some sort of office building. It appeared to be brand new, for it was in pristine condition, but there was absolutely nothing in it. No desks, no chairs, nothing; just hallway after hallway of empty offices and cubicles. Most of the lights were off in the building. It was positively eerie, like the sort of scene you would expect to see in a horror film. Lestrade was more than a little nervous, his eyes constantly shifting to the shadows, imagining he saw something move. He was half expecting something to come jumping out at him any second. The tension rose as he was escorted through the building to meet an unknown fate. Finally, they seemed to reach their destination. It was a, thankfully well lit, fully furnished, conference room. The handcuffs were removed, and the men who had been escorting him retreated from the room, closing the door behind them. Lestrade waited a bit then tried the handle. Naturally the door was locked. He moved across the room to a window. This was also locked. Whoever was behind this was evidently no amateur. Why then, was this person interested in Lestrade? There was no time to speculate, for the next thing he knew the door was thrown open to reveal an imposing man, dressed in a three pieced suit with an umbrella slung over his arm, standing in the doorway.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I do apologize for the manner in which you were brought here. I left it up to my assistant to collect you, and she has failed me quite miserably. For the last time I might add, for I can assure you she will be dismissed as soon as a suitable replacement is found." The man waltzed into the room, the door closing behind him as if by magic. "Pity, that makes the third assistant I've replaced this year. Oh well, perhaps we will have more success this time."

Lestrade was speechless for a moment. Was this strange, umbrella wielding kidnapper attempting to make conversation? Officially, this had to be the weirdest thing that had ever happened in Lestrade's entire life. And he had met Sherlock Holmes so that was saying something. Silence reigned as the two men studied each other.

"Who are you? What do want with me?" The inspector blurted out as his voice returned to him.

The other man sighed wearily, "Always the same questions, every time. I had hoped that you would be less obvious than the others. But alas, I overestimated you." He finished with a sarcastic smile. Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed from pleasantly polite to sharp and calculating. The shift was decidedly disconcerting. "To answer your questions, my name is not important. I hold a…minor…position in the British Government, and you would do well to keep that in mind when dealing with me. As for my business with you, well, it concerns a certain Sherlock Holmes. You are familiar with him, yes?"

"Uh…you could say that." Lestrade could hardly believe his ears. Was this man saying that he 'had been abducting at gun point because of Sherlock bloody Holmes?

"Well, I should certainly hope that you would recognize his name. He did solve a murder inquiry for you today. Let me just warn you, Inspector," the man walked forward as he spoke in a manner that could only be termed as threatening, "Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man with friends in high places."

"And you would be those friends?"

The man laughed mirthlessly, "You could say that. I simply want you to understand that if anything should happen, to Sherlock, the consequences would be dire indeed." He paused looking down at his umbrella, then back up to meet Lestrade's eyes. "You have a child at home, yes? New born? It wouldn't do to have your job in jeopardy now would it? Fortunately, you have nothing to worry about as long as you do as you're told. Am I clear?"

Lestrade swallowed apprehensively, knowing he had no choice but to do as this man said. "Crystal."

"Excellent," the pleasant demeanor had returned. "You will find instructions on your desk tomorrow morning. For now, however, you are free to go. And may you have a very pleasant evening with your wife." With that the man swooped out of the room, leaving Lestrade wondering what he had gotten himself into.

The next morning, he received the orders and the whole thing made sense. The orders had been dispensed by none other than a Mycroft Holmes. So the man was Sherlock's family. Lestrade found himself sighing with relief and even chuckling a little. That kidnapping escapade had been nothing more than a display of brotherly affection. Well, for a Holmes anyway. Knowing that this Mycroft was Sherlock's brother somehow made the situation intriguing rather than creepy. Mycroft Holmes was obviously immensely powerful and intelligent, if he was anything like his brother. Lestrade was glad he was on the Government's side and not the other way around, for he had no doubt he would stand no chance against Mycroft. As Lestrade continued to work with Sherlock he heard more about the elder Holmes brother. If he was being honest, the sibling rivalry between the two men was refreshingly human, making Sherlock less of a machine and more of a person. However, that, plus the paper orders left on his desk, was the extent of his knowledge and interaction with Mycroft Holmes. There was minimal contact, and certainly no more actual meetings. Several years later, that all changed.

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><p>Lestrade was back at his desk, still marveling at the events that had just occurred. Sherlock really was an inconsiderate jerk. Poor John, having to live with the man. Still, better him than Greg. Nope, after what happened with Amy, Lestrade was in no hurry to move in with someone else just yet. After the divorce, Lestrade decided to move to a smaller flat that was closer to work. With Laura only visiting him on the odd weekend, it really didn't make sense to live in that big house all by him self. Tonight, however, it didn't seem that he was getting to go home any time soon. That incident with Sherlock had taken much more time than it should have, and the paper work hadn't gone anywhere. It looked like it might end up being yet another late night at work for Gregory Lestrade. Even more worrying, the idea of spending more time at work didn't bother him at all. It was true; he was a bit of a workaholic. He didn't see that as a problem though. It meant he loved his job, and with a job like his that was definitely a bonus. Settling down to do the paper work, he was taken aback as Mycroft Holmes swept into the room.<p>

It has been said that Sherlock has a penchant for the dramatic. Well, his brother is just as theatrical, if not more. By now, DI Lestrade had caught on to the over-the-top entrances, and he quietly found them amusing. This entrance, though unexpected, was no exception. The inspector couldn't keep the small smile off his face.

"Mycroft Holmes, to what do I owe this pleasure."

"Well, Inspector," Mycroft answered, taking a seat before being asked to, "It has been a while since our first…meeting. Since I am already here due to Sherlock, I thought it was time we had a little chat."

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><p>AN: And BAM we're done. Was that too confusing/long/boring/pointless/unnecessary? I do have another flashback type chapter planned for this story, but I need to know how this one went. Next chapter will be the "little chat" and then the mystery will start. I am excited


	8. A Little Chat

A/N: Thank you to my anonymous reviewers. Your comments were wonderful and made me feel much less self conscious. You are amazing.

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><p>For the first time, Lestrade had an opportunity to really study this man, Mycroft Holmes. He didn't need Sherlock's powers of deduction to be able to tell that the man came from money. Lestrade was certain that Mycroft's tie alone cost more than the DI's entire wardrobe. If that weren't intimidating enough, the way that Mycroft carried himself was positively daunting. He had such poise, such dignity, it was clear he held a position of great power. Greg probably should have felt more uncomfortable in the presence of this imposing figure, which had both kidnapped and threatened him in the past. As it was, he felt surprisingly at ease. Yes, Mycroft was frightening, but he was also quirky and sort of charming, in a very unusual way. Perhaps it was because Lestrade was used to working with very unordinary people, like Sherlock for example, but he did not find Mycroft all that off putting. This was decidedly a good thing since the man himself was now seated in Greg's office attempting to "chat", an activity in which Mycroft most likely didn't have much experience with.<p>

"You will be pleased to know that I successfully replaced the assistant who so gracelessly abducted you on our last meeting. My current assistant has been with me for several years now. A great relief to me, I can assure you. The interviewing process is so ghastly."

Lestrade chuckled at this statement. "Well, I'm glad to hear that no one else is being threatened at gun point due to an untactful PA."

"Yes, I do apologize for that, once again. It was a most unfortunate turn of events. My current assistant is much more reliable, and I can assure you that no mistakes of that nature will happen again as long as she is in my employ." He hesitated, unsure where to go with the conversation. "How is your…child?"

Greg cleared his throat, shifting with uneasiness. "Well, I barely see her anymore. She lives with her mother. Amy and I, we separated as I'm sure you deduced by my absent wedding ring. Laura's doing fine though. Happiest kid I know." Despite his lighthearted tone, Greg's sadness at the thought of his daughter shone in his eyes.

"I apologize for bringing up the subject." Mycroft clearly felt awkward. Obviously talking for the sake of socializing was not his strong point. "I am not skilled in the ways of…small talk. I, of course, deduced your divorce the moment I saw you, but have learned that it is best not to mention personal things if the facts have not been told to me personally."

"Yes, that bothers people usually doesn't it, the deductions? At least it does when Sherlock's the one making them. I don't mind it though. Sherlock deduces me all the time. I suppose I'm used to it by now. What are you doing making small talk anyway? You don't usually do that, do you?"

Mycroft visibly relaxed as the uncomfortable moment passed. "No, I don't. I'm feeling particularly sociable tonight."

"Well, I don't mind. I don't get to talk to people outside of work all that often. Or do anything at all outside of work for that matter. Although, I suppose this doesn't exactly qualify as 'outside of work' seeing as we're sitting in my office." Lestrade had long since put aside his pen, forgoing any hope of finishing his paperwork and leaving for home anytime soon.

"Hmm…yes." Mycroft hummed, before lapsing into silence. From the look he was giving the police officer, it was obvious he was deducing bucket loads of information about him. The moment should have been more unnerving that it was. Lestrade, however, simply sat back and continued to observe Mycroft. It wouldn't do to let his gourd down around this powerful man. Even if he did come across as nothing more than a socially ill at ease, yet somehow pleasant, man. He was still the great mind behind the British Government, and that was not something to be forgotten lightly. Finally, Mycroft's voice cut through the silence. No longer was he experimentally chatting. No, Mycroft was in full on deduction mode, his voice pleasant as he continued to stare Lestrade down. "You must have great patience, Inspector, to put up with my dear brother, Sherlock."

"Well, yes, he is a handful sometimes, isn't he?"

Mycroft laughed, without any trace of sarcasm for once. "That is an immense understatement. I must admit, this consulting detective exploit has been much more successful than I ever could have predicted, and I think that, in part, that is largely due to your involvement. The fact that tonight is the first night I have been called in to bail my brother out of jail is testament to your valuable assistance. Through out these six or so years, you have been a support to my brother when he was too self-righteous to come to me for help, and you have gotten little thanks for it. What I would like to know is why. Why put up with him? None of the others in your position do, and they get on fine, considering. So why do you, Gregory Lestrade, consult Sherlock Holmes?"

"I can't tell you how many times I've asked myself that question." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "In all seriousness though, I'm pretty sure you already know the answer to that question."

"Yes, I'm fairly certain that I do. I would like to hear it from your own lips, nevertheless."

"Alright then, let's see. Why do I put up with Sherlock? For one thing, I'm completely desperate. Originally, I was working with Sherlock because I, unlike some of the other ambitious pricks working here, actually do care about catching the criminal more than getting a promotion. Now, with them sending me the biggest cases, I'd be lost without him. Honestly, it's gotten to the point that I couldn't be rid of him if I wanted to. I need him, can't do the job without him. More than that though, he needs the work. Sherlock is bloody amazing, to put it frankly. Before he was a consulting detective he was under appreciated and mistreated, labeled as a freak. And, although he is still verbally abused by jealous idiots, he can handle it now because he is doing what he is meant to do. Sherlock was born to do detective work. He can catch any criminal we throw at him, and is one of a kind in that respect. He has found a purpose, a place in life. He has found friends, or as close as he is going to get to friends. What kind of person would I be if I took that away from him? I could never bring myself to shut him out of the cases, no matter how arrogant and patronizing he may be."

"And that is what displays your unique character." Mycroft cut in softly, "Of all the people in my brother's life, you were the first outside of family to believe in him. He may not show it but that means a great deal to him. It is only a shame that, because of his inane pride, he cannot bring himself to treat you with the amount of respect that you deserve. Instead, he dedicates a good portion of his time to making your life difficult."

Greg shrugged, "It's not a big deal. I have my ways of dealing with him."

"Ah yes, the…drugs busts." The scorn was obvious in Mycroft's voice. "How effective are those raids, in actuality?"

"Not very." Lestrade admitted with a sigh. "If you have anything better to suggest, I'd be more than happy to hear it. Getting Sherlock to do what I need him to do is comparable to stopping the rotation of the earth, it can't be done. I suppose it could be said I need all the help I can get with your brother, though I'm sure he would kill me for saying something like that to you."

"Indeed he would," a genuine smile flitted across Mycroft's face. He reached inside his suit, pulling out a leather bound note book and a pen. With a flourish, he marked down a series of numbers. "In the future, if you find he's being difficult, call me." He ripped the page out and passed the note to Lestrade as he stood to leave. "Go home, Inspector, get some sleep. I assure you that your unfinished paperwork will be filled out and completed by the time you arrive at work tomorrow."

With that, Mycroft Holmes was gone, leaving behind a bewildered Gregory Lestrade to stare down at the phone number in his hand and wonder, 'What the hell just happened?'

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><p>What was that? Small talk, asking about family, giving a police officer his phone number; where had any of that come from? Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the back of a black, unmarked car, silently mourning the loss of that note book page. In a moment of impulsiveness, Mycroft had ripped a page from his favorite leather bound note book, and he now bitterly regretted it. What had even prompted him to do such a thing? Mycroft Holmes was not contacted. No, Mycroft did all contacting in any business transactions he may conduct. Who even had his number; Sherlock, John, Anthea, and maybe the Prime Minister? Certainly not lowly detective inspectors from Scotland Yard. Well, not previously anyway. Something, however, had possessed Mycroft to offer this man his contact information. Hence, the ripping of the paper and the loss of a very smart looking note book. Going into Lestrade's office had been unplanned and irrational. For Mycroft, a man who never acted impulsively, such behavior was unheard of. His shameful attempts at small talk were unprecedented. This entire escapade broke all of Mycroft's personal rules of conduct. He had acted spontaneously rather than in the calculated manner of which he was accustomed. Perhaps even more remarkable, he couldn't bring himself to regret any of it. (Except the ripping of the notebook. That had been unfortunate.)<p>

Normally, such impulsive actions would have been seen by the elder Holmes as a weakness. In any other circumstance, he would distance himself as far from the incident as possible and push it from his mind, deliberately not giving it any more thought. In the past, he would have ordered his phone number to be changed after, so impulsively, divulging it. Maybe he would even have gone as far as to have Gregory Lestrade removed from the country after that small conversation. Tonight, however, he merely lamented the ruin of his favorite notebook, and that was it; no threats, no kidnappings, nothing. He had 'chatted', he had embarrassed himself, he had given a man his personal phone number for God's sake, and yet all he felt discontented about was the ripping of that paper from the notebook. This was quite the phenomenon, and Mycroft recognized it. That he, a Holmes, was okay with this unstructured socializing was nothing short of extraordinary. So, leaning back into the seat of the car, Mycroft took some time contemplate exactly what his own motivations had been this evening. He found that there was no simple explanation of all the facts. This problem would require more time and introspection. Like the mystery of John and Sherlock's relationship that had consumed not even a month before, he realized this was probably just another self-imposed diversion to distract him from his loneliness. That did not stop him from embracing the puzzle, however. It was possible that what his mind needed was just that, a good distraction.

Mycroft may have not quite figured out what was going on yet, but he knew that, whatever it was that was happening, it was absolutely fascinating. And that was how it all began.

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><p>AN: As always, feedback is appreciated and any questions you may have I will be happy to answer. Sometimes my writing doesn't make sense to me, so I can only imagine how you must feel trying to decipher it.


	9. A Case for Sherlock

**This chapter will contain:** A description of a body at a crime scene, an attempt at Sherlock deductions (which may or may not be a complete disaster), excessive Anderson hating, a depressing lack of Mycroft, and probably a few grammatical errors because I didn't edit this very much.

Consider yourself warned.

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><p>It would be nice if once, just once, it was a nice pleasant day out when there was a particularly brutal killing. It would help lighten the mood considerably. Somehow, that never seemed to happen. Today was no exception, it was rainy and depressing and Gregory Lestrade was investigating a murder. As a case, it didn't seem all that serious. There was one victim, a woman in her late thirties, and that was the extent of it. Normally, a case like this would be easy to solve. What made this case special was the complete and total lack of evidence. As far as Lestrade could tell, there was no murder weapon, no evidence to even suggest the identity of the killer, and no way at all to identify the body. The police force was entirely at a loss as to how they should conduct an investigation with absolutely no leads, and that meant it was time to bring in the consulting detective. In a twisted sort of way, Lestrade was happy that there was finally a case for Sherlock. He wasn't glad that someone was dead, of course, but having the consulting detective text him every five minutes informing him that he, Sherlock Holmes, was bored had quickly become aggravating. Thankfully, Sherlock only sent these repetitive texts when John was too busy to entertain him. Still, during the hours that John had worked at the clinic, life had been torture for Lestrade. A case had been desperately needed, and now there was finally one worthy of Sherlock. Just in time too. The last time Sherlock had gone this long without a case, he had toilet papered Anderson's house. It was only a matter of time before the incident repeated itself.<p>

Lestrade and his team were now at the crime scene, just waiting for Sherlock to show up. Anderson was on forensics which was less than ideal, but it couldn't be helped. They had called Anderson in expecting this to be an easy case, the fact that it turned out to be complicated was tremendously unfortunate. They couldn't exactly just send him back to the yard though, so he was here to stay. Lestrade only hoped that the man stayed out of Sherlock's way. The last thing he needed was John punching anyone in Sherlock's defense, again.

Sherlock's voice preceded him as he came down the hallway. "My, my, Anderson, two women mad at you at once. What have you been doing?"

"I don't know what your talking abou-"

"The shaving cream under your left ear," Sherlock interrupted the forensic officer's protestations, "it clearly shows that your wife is mad at you. Perhaps she isn't even living with you at the moment. If things were fine between you she would have pointed it out, but things aren't fine. She's angry with you. Judging by both the fact that Sgt. Donovan hasn't said anything about the offending shaving cream and the rather cold looks she was shooting you while we were outside; it is evident that she is annoyed with you also. Possibly, these could be attributed to two separate incidents. More likely, this is all connected to your affair with Donovan. Is that enough, or would you like me to continue?"

Anderson stood with his mouth opening and closing like a fish, trying to formulate a response. Lestrade called out from down the hallway, "Stop antagonizing my officers, Sherlock. I need you in here." Sherlock brushed past Anderson, without so much as another glance in the man's direction. John, who was tailing his flatmate, tried to give Anderson an apologetic smile through his snickering, but it didn't come across as sincere in the least.

"Woman, late thirties, no identification on her. Time of death was around three a.m. this morning. The body was found by the landlord, who came in to air out the room. He had people who were coming see about renting the flat today." Lestrade stated as Sherlock entered the room. They were in an empty flat that hadn't been unlived in long enough to develop a film of dust yet. The woman was propped up against a wall like an oversized doll. At a glance, you could have made the mistake of thinking she was still alive, for the only evidence of her demise was deep gash in her chest where she had been stabbed to dead and a small pool of blood around the body. Her eyes were open, staring unseeingly across the room. Her expression was disturbingly blank, as if death had wiped away all emotions. On the wall above her head was a symbol drawn in blood. It resembled a crescent moon facing downward, with one star above it and one star below it and a circle enclosing the entire thing.

"That symbol on the wall?" Sherlock asked while stepping forward to examine the body.

"Drawn with the victim's blood," Lestrade was standing off to the side. Sherlock had complete control over this investigation now, and everyone here knew it. "We found no murder weapon, no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, we basically found nothing. Honestly, Sherlock, we have no leads. We haven't even been able to identify the body."

Sherlock gave the inspector what might have been a pitying look before speaking. "You really haven't identified the body yet? Can't you do anything by yourself? She's the mother of two daughters, happily married, and currently living in London. No doubt she has been reported missing shouldn't be two hard to identify. I am baffled that you couldn't do that on your own, inspector."

"Donovan! Check the missing persons list again. This time we know she's a mother with two daughters, married, living in London." Lestrade called out the door immediately, before turning back. "Wait, two daughters? How could you possibly-"

"The bracelet around her wrist, it was clearly made by a child. That says one daughter. Then there are the bruises on her neck that show she was also wearing a necklace that got ripped off while struggling with her murderer."

"Couldn't the necklace just have been a piece of jewellery? We don't know it was definitely made by a daughter." John interrupted.

"Look at her, John. No make-up, clothes chosen for comfort rather than fashion, this is not a woman who wears jewellery on a regular basis. Not unless it was made for her by her child."

"Fine, but how do you know she has two daughters? Maybe she has one daughter who made both the necklace and bracelet." Lestrade interjected.

"If they were made by the same child why would she be wearing both? Like I said before, this woman did not enjoy wearing jewellery. No, she was wearing one of the pieces, most likely because it was made for her recently, and the other child became jealous and whined until she also put on the piece that they made. Thus, it is safe for us to conclude that she had two daughters."

"So she struggled with her attacker?" John asked, digging for more information.

"Yes, there are signs of it all over the body and in the hallway we just came through. I'm amazed that you missed them. The bruises around her neck, and the tell tale beads I noticed coming in show that the person grabbed her necklace and it broke off in their hand. She was a fighter this woman, struggling right up till the end."

"Struggling with whom, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "That's what really matters, who did this and why."

"That's the question, isn't it? It could have been her husband, but as I stated earlier their marriage was a happy one."

"And you know this, how?" John voiced the confusion of the entire room.

"We can tell by her wedding ring that she is, indeed, married. Normally, single women or women in difficult relationships keep their exterior immaculate, always trying to impress others. Women in comfortable established relationships, however, are often times less likely to worry about that kind of thing. Now, what do we see when we look at this woman? She wears no make up, no jewellery, and her clothes are hardly flattering. This is not a woman occupied with keeping up appearances. This is a woman so involved with her family that her own physical appearance matters little to her. Her relationship with her husband is stable, and any idea that she might have had a lover is implausible."

Lestrade stepped forward, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Alright, so not a crime motivated by love. Not likely money, if her clothes are an accurate representation of her income I'd say she's middle class. Well off, but not with enough money for someone to murder her over."

"Excellent, Inspector!" Sherlock looked delighted. "Your skills of deduction are improving all the time."

"I'm not an idiot, Sherlock!" Greg objected ignoring the look Sherlock sent him. "What about this symbol? What does it have to do with all this?"

"Ah yes, that." They turned their attention to the bloody icon on the wall. "I'm afraid I don't know enough to answer your questions at this point. This symbol merits further investigation. I will say that this symbol confirms my suspicions that this killing is far more complicated than just the death of a middle aged woman."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, dear inspector, that we have barely scratched the surface of this crime."

Donovan then entered the room, returning from checking the missing persons list. "I checked again, no woman of that description was reported missing in London during the last forty-eight hours."

"What?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "No, no that doesn't make sense!" He began to pace around the room, negative energy literally pulsing off of him as he sifted through his previous deductions looking for some mistake.

John winced, glancing at the police officers cautiously. When Sherlock was tense like this it tended to cause trouble, what with others believing that the consulting detective was overconfident in his own abilities. John spoke up, hoping to calm Sherlock a bit. "Well, maybe she wasn't from London? Or maybe she went missing earlier than forty-eight hours ago?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's obvious from her hair and clothes that she had been to her home in the last twenty-four hours. She had not been traveling to London from some outlying place, nor had she been kidnapped to some unfamiliar location. The fact that she was wearing traveling clothes was... oh." Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, straightening up as realization hit him. "Oh!"

"Sherlock? What is it?"

Sherlock spoke quickly, his excitement at his new discovery evident in his voice. "She lived in London, but she was leaving. Not permanently, just traveling for awhile. It explains the lack of identification or cellular phone. A woman like this doesn't carry around a purse. No, normally she would have kept any objects she carried in her pockets. They're not there now, because they're in her suit case."

"What suit case? What are you on about?" Lestrade inquired. He swore Sherlock explained things in such a round about way simply to annoy him.

"Don't you see? She's wearing traveling clothes. She was going to get on a plane! This explains why she hasn't been reported missing. Her family said goodbye to her last night, sending her off on her way to the airport. They have no reason to suspect that something went horribly wrong."

"I don't understand. How does she go from going to the airport to lying dead in an empty flat?"

"That's where this gets really interesting. She no doubt ordered a taxi to take her to the airport. She got into what she thought was the taxi she ordered, and didn't even realize she was being abducted until they stopped at this building rather than the airport. They then carted her into this room where she met her ultimate ending."

"So what are we dealing with? Another rogue cabbie?"

"No, no don't confuse the issue!" Sherlock snapped. "This doesn't have to be an actual taxi; it just has to look like a taxi. No, what we're dealing with is someone clever. If I hadn't been here, you lot might not have even identified the body for weeks. Even after that, you'd still be painfully confused. This criminal is smart undoubtedly they've been planning this crime for months. They got the information, possibly by hacking the taxi agency's system, and drove over just a couple minutes before the true taxi would have. Thus, our victim got in their car and was whisked away right before her husband's eyes. You should be able to identify the body if you contact the biggest taxi agencies in London. Find someone who ordered a taxi to take her to the airport in the early hours of this morning, but was already gone when the taxi arrived for her. If we're lucky they will have documented that information and we will be able to track down our victim."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed softly, starring at Sherlock with his mouth hanging slightly open. The consulting detective smiled at him fondly, meeting his eyes for a heart beat too long to be comfortable for everyone else in the room.

Lestrade cleared his throat, drawing the two back to reality. "Right. I'll get right on that. Is there anything else you can tell us from the body, Sherlock?"

"Nothing definite." Sherlock was looking rather pleased with himself over the latest deduction. It was begging to frustrate everyone in the room, except for John who was still staring at the man like he was God. "I need to speak to the landlord."

"I already did that. He doesn't know anything."

"I'd like to check that for myself, thank you very much."

"Suit yourself." Lestrade signaled to Donovan that she should show Sherlock the way. She huffed in annoyance, but complied with the request. Lestrade turned to face the body one last time, hoping that with the identification of the body some answers would appear.

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><p>Victoria Hudgens was her name. She was a loving mother and wife. Her family was utterly devastated at her loss. No one gained financially from her death, and it was hard to imagine that such a kind, caring woman could have enemies that would want to kill her. So why had she died? Sherlock wasn't answering his phone, the bastard. Lestrade was going to have to figure this one out himself it seemed. There was no apparent motive, and yet someone had gone through quite a lot of trouble to arrange this woman's death. It just didn't make sense. It couldn't have been someone she recognized or she wouldn't have gotten into their car, so a stranger then? And then there was that symbol on the wall. What was that all about? Did it mean something, or was it a false clue to throw them off the track? Sherlock had said that the culprit was clever. Sherlock bloody Holmes had said that, so it must be true. Lestrade didn't know what he was dealing with, but he knew it was beyond his abilities.<p>

He tried Sherlock's phone again. No answer. He heaved a sigh of frustration. Sherlock knew more than he was letting on, of that Lestrade was certain. For all the DI knew, the murderer could be out there preparing to kill their next victim, and there was absolutely nothing Lestrade could do about it without the consulting detective's help. He could continue to pursue the lead he had right now, investigating Mrs. Hudgens's life. The chances of that leading him to catching the killer, however, were slim. He contemplated calling John. Perhaps, Sherlock's doctor companion would have some answers. Then again, Sherlock rarely told John what was going on either. He stared at the phone in his hand. He had entered that phone number Mycroft had given him into it that night. It was a strange feeling really, having the most powerful man you could imagine in his contact list. The urge to call the elder Holmes gripped him suddenly. The man had said he could call him when Sherlock was being difficult.

Did this qualify as Sherlock being difficult? Lestrade really didn't want to bother Mycroft without good reason; he was sure the repercussions for doing so would be dire. Yes, it would be much wiser to let Sherlock get back to him when he was ready for an arrest. That was how it usually went when Sherlock got in moods like this. Lestrade thoughts strayed to the sorrowful faces of the Hudgens family. They had looked so lost, so hopeless without Victoria there to support them. Could he really sit by and do nothing while the maniac responsible was still on the street? No, no he couldn't, not if he wanted to retain his self respect. With that, Lestrade dialed Mycroft's number before he had time to question the sanity of the decision.

"Hello." Mycroft's tone was clipped and business like.

"Err…hi, Mycroft. It's Gregory Lestrade…"

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><p>AN: It occurred to me while writing this chapter that I have never written the genre mystery before. Then, I also realized that I have never completed a romance story before either. And here I am writing a huge, multi-chapter story containing both of those genres. Yeah…so we'll see how this goes, shall we?


	10. Dinner with the Government

A/N: So, yeah…I changed my PenName. :) I apologize for the delay in updating. AP exams are taking their toll on my free time. They're done this week though, thank god! Below this is a response to one of my anonymous reviews. Feel free to read it if you like, but skip it otherwise.

**Note to anonymous reviewer** **Jay**: Thank you, thank you for your motivating review. You are far too kind. In response to your question about John and Sherlock, just let me say I'm sorry if it's been confusing so far. I am trying to leave their relationship open for interpretation. Yes, Johnlock will be implied, especially in upcoming chapters, but I don't want to write it out explicitly for two reasons. 1) Not everyone is a shipper and I want non-shippers to be able to enjoy this story. 2) Johnlock is my OTP and if I start writing it into the story it will quickly take over. As you might have noticed so far, every chapter I've written that contains Sherlock pretty much revolves around him. He's so distracting. The main focus of this story is Mystrade so, unfortunately, that means Johnlock has to take a backseat. Hope that answered your questions, and thank you again.

Alright, here's the chapter. Sorry for the huge author's note.

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><p>The restaurant Gregory Lestrade currently found himself standing in was high-class, to say the least. The lofty glass windows displayed a marvelous view of the London skyline. Each table was set with an ivory tablecloth, fine china, and a silk napkin miraculously folded into the shape of a swan. The patrons were positively aristocratic, the women wearing evening gowns and the men in dark suits. Greg felt rather shabby in comparison, his worn out work clothes not nearly expensive enough to look natural in this setting. He was here because of Mycroft, of course. He had phoned the man earlier out of desperation, and a car had been sent for him. Now, he was uncomfortably standing in this completely posh restaurant, silently wishing that Mycroft had chosen to meet at a different location. Fortunately, his uneasiness was short lived, as Mycroft's minions swiftly escorting him past the tables to what appeared to be a private room in the back.<p>

No doubt this space was normally used for business meetings, for it was far too large for just two people. There was a long table spanning the length of the room. It was vaguely reminiscent of that conference room where the two men had first met when Mycroft had kidnapped Lestrade years ago. The atmosphere, however, was distinctly more relaxed, seeing as Lestrade knew what was going on this time. Presently, Mycroft was speaking to his assistant Anthea, instructing her on what she should accomplish while he was busy sorting out this 'Sherlock related issue'. As the detective inspector entered the room, he murmured several words of dismissal, and the blackberry wielding woman left, quietly wondering just how this dinner was a Sherlock related issue. Lestrade's escorts departed as well, leaving him and Mycroft alone.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted, turning to face the other man as the door closed behind Anthea.

"Call me Greg, please…Or Gregory, if you prefer." He amended at the almost scathing look Mycroft sent him.

"Very well…Gregory." Mycroft's lips quirked up into a smile. "I take it my brother is causing you trouble again? That didn't take him very long. It seems like only yesterday he was breaking and entering over his scarf."

"Yes, well, it's Sherlock we're talking about. If he wasn't causing some kind of trouble I would be seriously worried." Greg took several steps into the room as he continued to speak. "We're working on a case, the murder of Victoria Hudgens as you may already know. Sherlock helped us identify the body, but refuses to tell us anything else. He's not withholding evidence, per se, so there's nothing I can do about it officially. I know he knows more than he's telling me, but I don't know what to do about it. I brought the case file with me." He held up the surprisingly thick folder in his right hand.

Wordlessly, Mycroft walked forward and accepted the file, "Have a seat, and help yourself to some food. I dragged you down here, the least I can do is offer you dinner."

"Oh no, I don't want to intrude. I-"

"I assure you, Gregory, you have saved me from the most tedious of meeting. The last thing you are doing here is intruding."

Mycroft sat down at the table, placed the folder in front of him, and began to leaf through its contents. Lestrade hesitantly took his place opposite from him, eying the food set out there. It was some pretentious type of ravioli, which no doubt featured five different kinds of exotic cheeses and homemade pasta, or something like that. He decided to write the fact that ravioli was his favorite dish off as a coincidence, because how would Mycroft even get that information in the first place. The silence was comfortable as both men were occupied with their separate tasks, Lestrade with eating and Mycroft with sifting through the file. It was not lost on either of them that if they had not been sitting together that night they most certainly would have been sitting alone. Being together was unquestionably the preferable option.

"Hmm, fascinating," Mycroft murmured. He finally closed the file, leaning his chin forward onto his folded hands, clearly deep in thought.

"Found something out, did you?" Greg cringed inwardly, realizing he'd spoken with his mouth full. Thankfully, Mycroft seemed too absorbed in his thoughts to notice.

"Indeed. There is a great deal more going on here than initially meets the eye."

"Sherlock said something like that. Something about the symbol proving that this crime was more complicated than just one death?" Lestrade had reluctantly put down his fork, not wanting to accidently speak with a mouth full of pasta again.

"Oh, there are many more inconsistencies than that. The symbol is just the icing on the cake. Think about the wound for instance, that should have been your first clue as to the nature of this crime. If you ignore the alarming amount of blood and the bruising left over from her struggles, the wound itself is not very messy. It is clean, as if it was delivered almost surgically. What does that say to you?" At some point during his words, Mycroft had stopped staring off into space and was now looking directly into Greg's eyes. It was slightly disorienting, and Greg found he had to look away and clear his throat before he was able to respond to the question.

"That it wasn't a crime of passion?" If Greg was being honest, he hadn't observed the state of the wound. There had been so much blood, the unnatural cleanness of the wound hadn't even occurred to him. Sherlock certainly hadn't said anything. Now that Mycroft pointed it out, however, it seemed obvious.

"Exactly, there was no strong emotion behind this crime. That eliminates love, anger, and all of the ordinary motivators that the police force is reasonable at picking up on. Hence, why Sherlock's cooperation was necessary in the identification of the body." When Mycroft explained things he didn't speak quickly, as Sherlock did; but rather he spoke clearly and concisely, always making sure Lestrade comprehended his meaning before continuing on with his explanation. "Overall, the nature of the wound was only a minor detail. The entire affair shows meticulous preparation and execution, far more so than what you would expect to find in the murder of a treasured and respected housewife. The plan was elaborate and well thought out. Do you see why this doesn't make sense?"

"…There was no reason for someone to do this." Lestrade felt as if Mycroft was testing his intelligence. It wasn't a nice feeling, but he supposed it was better than Sherlock's constant jabs and insults.

"Quite so. The effort put into the plan and the apparent patience of the killer simply do not correspond with the crime we see before us. Conclusion: there must be more than just this one murder."

Lestrade nodded in concurrence. If only Sherlock had sat down and explained all of that, this meeting would have been unnecessary to begin with. "Right, and do you have any ideas as to what actually is going on?"

"A little more than that I should hope," The condescending Holmes smirk was somehow not as annoying on Mycroft. "The murderer must have had great patience, to wait until Mrs. Hudgens was going to go on a vacation. They must have conceived the plan ahead of time, judging by the level of detail they observed. After that there were still many factors involved. Would she go on a vacation without her family? Would she take a taxi alone to the airport? Even if they knew her well, it was quite a gamble. I think we can both agree that something here is not adding up. The answer to this conundrum is a simple one, and one I can assure you my brother has already reached. Victoria Hudgens was not their target."

"What? You mean they made a mistake? After all that careful planning?"

"A mistake? No. The perpetrator fully intended to kill that woman, but not because of whom she was. No, she was chosen because she ordered a taxi to take her to the airport. The plan was already in place to kill someone and plant their body in that house. They infiltrated the taxi agency's system in order to get the information they needed, and you know the rest." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, looking more than a little pleased at the astounded look on the police officer's face.

"But…why? Why would anyone do this? What's their purpose if not just murder?"

"Her death is a warning. As my brother said before, the symbol gave it all away. Obviously, the location, the symbol, and the crime committed together are being utilized to send a message to someone. Other than the fact that she was a woman, nothing else about the victim's life is relevant to your investigation."

"And her gender is significant, how?"

"I believe the person who previously lived in that flat was also a woman. I might be wrong; your report was severely lacking important information regarding the flat. But judging by the information here and the picture that clearly shows someone moved from that location in a hurry not too long ago, I don't doubt that my solution is the correct one."

"You…you think the murder was a warning message to the woman who used to live there?" Lestrade asked uncertainly.

"I don't think," Mycroft replied, still wearing the trademark smirk. "I know."

Suddenly, Sherlock's words came flying back to the DI. _I need to speak to the landlord._ Lestrade mentally kicked himself. "And your brother has known this the whole time, and just decided not to tell me?"

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft smiled at him pityingly, no doubt wondering what it would be like to be so maddeningly clueless all the time.

Lestrade leaned back, rubbing the back of his head, and sighing heavily. "Well, that changes everything, doesn't it? Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"I have several other theories. None of which would be helpful to you at this time. I suggest you speak to the landlord, and investigate his previous tenant as thoroughly as you can." He passed the file back over to Greg. The inspector began to stand, and was surprised as Mycroft spoke up in protest. "Please, stay and finish your meal. I have yet to touch mine, and the company would be…Feel free to stay."

"Um…alright. Thanks." Lestrade returned to his seat, happy to finish his food which was, in all honestly, completely delicious. "How much do owe you for the food, anyway?"

"Consider it my treat." Mycroft smiled another genuine smile, something he seemed to be doing quite a lot of recently. "A repayment for all the help you've given Sherlock over the years."

Lestrade snorted, "More like all the help he's given me." He froze. Yes, he had just spoken with his mouth full, again, after vowing not to. He glanced up at Mycroft. The other man only looked slightly amused, not scandalized or horrified. Still, the slip up was embarrassing.

"I would check in with you to see how the case wraps up, but I'm afraid I'll be out of town." Mycroft was now tucking into his own meal, although significantly less enthusiastically than Lestrade. Of course, he did not speak with his mouth full. "I will contact you when I return, however."

"I suppose you can't tell me where you're going."

"I'm afraid not. But I can tell you I'll be on a plane for quite a while." Mycroft dabbed at his mouth with a napkin in a manner that can only be described as dainty. It was all Lestrade could do to keep himself from grinning.

"You do that a lot then, for your job, go on planes?" Gregory's eyes danced mischievously as he teased his more secretive dinner companion.

The British government official gave him a pointed look, and they lapsed into silence, both enjoying their meals. Over the course of the evening they chatted a little. It was unexpectedly easy, like this was something they did on a regular basis and not a first time thing. Eventually, Lestrade completed his meal, but he did not get up and leave. Instead, he leaned back, sighing contentedly.

"So is this what it's like to be Mycroft Holmes then? Eating a proper meal every night in your own private room at the nicest restaurant imaginable?"

"Mmm…not quite. I'm usually too busy to work. And even when I'm not, I generally eat alone." Mycroft was done with his meal as well.

"So not that different from my life then." Greg drained the last of the wine from his glass, standing as he set it down. Mycroft stood as well. "I guess I better be off then. Thank you for the lovely meal and company."

"The pleasure was all mine."

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><p>AN: So that was rather hard to write. Any questions feel free to ask. Especially since that one might have been particularly confusing.


	11. Laura Comes to Visit

A/N: In this chapter, I'm finally introducing Laura, my OC, and, well, she wanted her daddy to tell her a story…Yeah…I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not. It was fun to write. By the way, Laura is pronounced like the name Lara, it's just a different spelling. Sorry if there are mistakes in here, but this chapter is too long to edit thoroughly.

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><p>The landlord, Robert Johnson, was a small man. His receding hair, large glasses, and ill fitting jumper made him rather peculiar looking. The man seemed perpetually anxious, as if he was always expecting something to go horribly wrong. He was a nice enough bloke though, if only a bit jumpy. Despite the fact that he had already been questioned about the murder three times previously, he agreed to talk to Lestrade one last time. The DI was grateful for his cooperation; nothing made getting information more difficult than a reluctant witness. So it was that Lestrade and Sally Donovan found themselves sitting in Johnson's kitchen, being served tea by the nervous landlord.<p>

"So, Mr. Johnson, what can you tell me about your ex-tenant, Miss-" Greg checked his notes, having forgotten the name, "Miss Lydia Sparks."

"Well," the man swallowed uneasily. "I didn't really know her all that much. She wasn't a big talker. Lived here for years and I never really knew what was going on in her head. Wh- when she first moved in she was into all that 'new age' stuff. I remember she had all these dream catcher type things hanging all over the walls. A couple months before she left, I found them all in the rubbish bins, figured she must have grown out of it. She would do things like that, change her mind a lot I mean. She was a bit of an odd one, Lydia. I wonder if she's maybe bi-polar or something. That would make a lot of sense."

"You got the feeling she was unstable?" Sally asked, her voice kind and gentle. It never failed to amaze Lestrade how caring Donovan was to people she didn't feel threatened by.

"No, n-not really. It's just- It's just one time, I came up to bring her the mail, to make her life easier and all that, and I found her- I found her crying, just crying on the floor. I made her tea, and sat with her for a moment, and before I knew it she was laughing like nothing had happened at all. It was…strange."

"And her sudden departure? What do you know about that? Did she tell you where she was going?" Lestrade inquired.

"No, she didn't tell me anything. She just told me she was going, and I went in the next day and- and she was gone. Her rent was paid up through the rest of the month too. She could have stayed for two more weeks if she wanted. I wasn't surprise though, really. She's always been like that as long as I've known her, always changing her mind about things. And it's lucky, I suppose, that she was gone before all this dreadful murder business started." The DI and the Sergeant exchanged a look. Was this luck or something more substantial?

"How long had she been gone before the night of the murder?"

"Only a week. A week exactly, in fact. Yes, it was very lucky she was gone by then."

Donovan spoke up. "Did you notice any unusual behaviour in the weeks before her leaving?"

"No… well, a little. She started doing…things. I- I mean weird things, weirder than usual. Like she always had a fire going, and when I brought her the mail she would b-burn it. I had to start pulling the bills and important things out, because, if I didn't, she would burn those too. When I asked her why she was doing this she changed the subject, just acting like everything was normal. I- I kept having to rescue her laptop and mobile phone from the rubbish, she kept trying to throw them out. Eventually, the laptop got thrown out the window, and I found the phone floating in the toilet. She never told me why she was doing these things, and I didn't ask. She- she was like that you see. She had always been…different. The fact that she was acting stranger than usual bothered me, of course, but what could I do about it? And then she packed up and left, and that was that."

"Hmm, right." Lestrade took a moment to digest the information before asking another question. This Lydia character was turning out to be a lot more out of the ordinary than he expected her to be. "The symbol that was found above the body, do you recognize that? Was it, perhaps, something you might have seen among Lydia's possessions?"

"Oh, I- I don't know. She had a lot of things like that. Stars and moons, that kind of thing was all over her stuff. I never paid them much mind." Robert's eyes grew wider, and he looked at the police officers in alarm. "You don't think she had something to do with this, do you? Because she didn't! Sh- she was eccentric, but she would never-"

"It's alright, calm down, sir. You've got nothing to worry about. If she's innocent then you can be sure nothing bad is going to happen to her." Donovan placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

"Look, Mr. Johnson." Lestrade started. "Did Laura have any friends or family we could contact? We've been trying to track her down, but it's like she's disappeared. There's not a trace of her anywhere. Now, we don't think she's done anything wrong, but we are concerned for her safety. Any help you could give us would be greatly appreciated."

"Sh- she never mentioned any family, and any friends she had never came to the flat while I was there. She didn't talk much about herself. Was more of a listener really." Robert wrung his hands nervously. "You don't think something's happened do you, to her?"

"We don't know, but hopefully we'll find her and she'll be just fine." Lestrade stood and Donovan mimicked him. "Well, if you can't help us we'll get out of your hair. I'll be in touch if we need your help." The two police officers made their way out of the building and to the car, Donovan settling into the driver's seat and Lestrade collapsing in the passenger seat next to her.

"Well, now what?" Donovan asked, the calm, kind exterior gone, replaced by her stressed, tense self. Lestrade ran a hand through his silver hair, exhaling slowly. The information he had gained from Mycroft hadn't turned out as helpful as he had hoped it would be. The name Lydia Sparks was nowhere to be found in their records, it was like the woman never existed. Lestrade suspected that it was an alias of some kind, and, judging by the description he had just been given, that hypothesis was not an unreasonable one. Unfortunately, it meant the Yarders really didn't have a shot at tracking her down, and they were, once again, left with no leads.

"We'll head back to the yard, and regroup with the rest of the team. Perhaps one of them will have new information for us." He said, his voice not holding much hope. Sally nodded, putting the car into drive. Greg rested his head in his hand, leaning heavily against the car door. His insomnia had been getting worse with this new case, and he was honestly exhausted. Donovan could, no doubt, see this, but that didn't stop her from complaining loudly as they drove down the crowded street.

"Do you really have to take the day off tomorrow?"

"I've told you already, my daughter's staying with me for the weekend. I can't bail out again, like last time. It would give Amy another chance to try for full custody. And I can't lose Laura, Sally, I really can't." He looked up at her, willing her to understand so that he could, for once, have some peace and quiet. He had no such luck.

"But with you gone, I'll be working alone with Anderson _all day!_ Do you understand how horrible that is going to be?"

"What's going on between the two of you anyway? You used to get on just fine, now it's like you can barely stand to be in the same room as each other!" At first, he hadn't minded the chilly silences between the two, but now, after several days, the cold behaviour was beginning to get on Lestrade's nerves.

"I don't want to talk about it." Sally muttered, focusing her eyes on the road. The older police officer shrugged, letting the matter go. If his subordinates wanted to hate each other that was their business, he certainly wasn't going to play therapist for them.

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><p>Greg got home later than he had anticipated, it was amazing how many false leads you could dig up when you had no idea what you were doing. He supposed it didn't make all that much of a difference; it wasn't like he would have slept any longer if he had been home on time. He went to the kitchen and heated up a can of ravioli, while simultaneously discarding his jacket and shoes in a slapdash manner. Taking his meal into his living room, he retired to his chair. He flipped on the television, but quickly shut it off when the first thing he saw was a news report about the murder of Victoria Hudgens. Work always seemed to follow him home, whether it was through newspapers or other forms of media. It never left him alone. Sitting in silence, he attempted to eat the ravioli. His mind apparently had other ideas, and continued to wander back to that dinner he had shared with Mycroft. Compared to that meal, this canned monstrosity was vaguely disgusting.<p>

Inevitably, he gave up and set his bowl aside, leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft had been in his thoughts quite a lot lately. He knew it was foolish to think about the man too often, for the chances of them meeting again anytime soon were rather pitiful. If he wasn't careful he would start to miss the strangely captivating Government Official. Unfortunately, however, Lestrade couldn't seem to control his thoughts on the matter. Constantly, he found himself thinking of things he'd like to tell Mycroft; filing away conversation starters, just in case he needed them in the future. Multiple times, he caught himself right before sending the man a text. The increasing insomnia wasn't helping either. Each time he would stop himself just a little later than before, and it was only a matter of time before he finally slipped up and actually hit the send button. Somehow, he figured that accidentally sending Mycroft a text wouldn't go over so well, especially if he happened to interrupt an important meeting with some foreign dignitary.

In all honesty, Greg was more than a little embarrassed about his current preoccupation with Sherlock's older brother. It wasn't as if he really knew the man, but he thought about him near constantly. It wasn't Lestrade's fault really. He couldn't help it if he found Mycroft extremely charming, in a rather curious way. The three pieced suits, the umbrella, and the posh attitude, all combined with Mycroft's fierce intelligence, were overwhelming. If Mycroft had been anyone else Greg would have called this fixation of his a crush. This wasn't just anyone, however, this was Mycroft Holmes. And, if his brother was anything to go by, a crush on a Holmes was not something Lestrade particularly wanted to have. So, in a behaviour which could have been termed denial, Gregory ignored his fascination with the elder Holmes brother; only paying it enough attention to keep from making a fool of himself by texting the man insistently.

He must have fallen asleep sitting there, for he was awakened abruptly by the ringing of the doorbell. He vaulted out of the chair, trying to gain his bearings. A quick glance at the clock told him he had slept in far too long. It was already time for Amy to be dropping off Laura, and unquestionably that was her ringing the bell. Making his way to the door, he pulled on his rumpled clothing and ran his hands through his hair, trying to look like he hadn't just woken up. It was all in vain though, for as he opened the door it was clear from the disapproving scowl his ex-wife sent him that she knew exactly where he had been sleeping. Despite their differences, Amy did care about Greg. When they had been together she had always been on about him overworking himself, even during the bad times. Falling asleep in the chair would have earned him several hours' worth of lecturing back in those days. Now, he was simply given a threatening glare. And then she was gone, leaving a very sleepy Laura in her wake.

"Hey, kiddo. Did you eat breakfast yet?" Laura mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'doughnut' as she allowed herself to be lead into the house. Greg chuckled, "You hungry?" The four year old nodded vigorously. "Alright, you sit down right here, and I'll be back with some cereal for you in just a minute."

The detective sat his daughter down on the couch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. Then, he flipped on the telly, snagged the crusted over ravioli from where it lay next to the chair, and went to the kitchen. Luckily, he never really had time for breakfast on normal days, so there was still a box of sugar cereal lurking in the back of his cupboard. It might have been a little stale, but Laura didn't notice. She was too pleased at the fact that she was being allowed to eat on the couch to pay attention to anything other than not making a mess (if she spilled the milk daddy might not let her eat in front of the television anymore). Meanwhile, her dad quickly showered and got dressed, not wanting to leave her unsupervised for too long. He then joined her on the couch, officially marking the start of their day together.

* * *

><p>Lestrade didn't get to see Laura as often as he would have liked. This day was the second time he had seen her in the last month. Only seeing her every other weekend was tough. It may just have been his imagination, but it seemed like every time he saw her she was a bit taller. Her personality was certainly changing. Like today, for instance, she seemed much more subdued than he had ever seen her before. Normally, Laura was a little ball of energy that could not, under any circumstances, be contained. Today, however, Laura was quiet, almost melancholy. Greg found the change disturbing. At first, he thought she was just a little tired and would perk up as the day progressed. Her low mood continued they when to the park, and he became concerned. When she seemed indifferent to the ducks swimming in the duck pond, not even asking if she could feed them, he knew something was desperately wrong. Lestrade steered his daughter to the nearest bench, intending to figure out what was going on in her head. There they sat for a moment, overlooking the pond.<p>

Greg knew that Amy's boyfriend was quickly becoming a big part of Laura's life. He hoped not, but it was possible that this man was the source of his daughters changed attitude. "Do you like Kyle, Laura?" he asked cautiously. The young girl merely shrugged, eyes looking down at the ground. "Is he nice to you?"

"Yeah, I guess." Laura kicked her feet out, swinging them back and forth. "It's just…He doesn't tell any stories!" She blurted out, frustration clear in her voice.

"No stories!" Lestrade exclaimed in mock astonishment. "Well that's no good, is it?" Laura shook her head gravely, completely missing his joking tone. "Well, you know, you can always call me if you ever need a story."

Laura's head snapped up, her expression taken aback. "Really?"

"Of course really!"

"But mummy said you were too busy when I wanted to call you!" Well, that explained the downhearted attitude. Laura had been feeling betrayed, assuming that her mother had been telling the truth; that her daddy really was just too busy to talk to her. Count on Amy to plant something like that in their child's mind.

"Well, your mum was wrong, wasn't she?" he responded. "I'm never too busy for a good story."

Immediately, Laura's countenance brightened. "Will you tell me a story now? About the consulting detective?" She turned her body to face him, leaning forward and beaming. Greg chuckled at her enthusiasm.

The stories about the amazing consulting detective had started up when Laura was not even a year old. She had been so young at the time she hadn't understood a word her father was saying. She just liked to watch his facial expressions and body language. As she grew older, she came to appreciate the stories for themselves. Sherlock made a wonderful hero. Laura loved hearing about his adventures, even if Lestrade did make most of the stories up off of the top of his head. Her love for stories expanded into a love for books and movies. As four year olds go, she was definitely one of the more literate. She couldn't read, exactly, but she could pick out words and phrases here and there. However, even as she grew older and learned of different types of stories of storytelling, her dad's detective stories were always her favourite.

Her love for the consulting detective was only increased with the introduction of his lovable sidekick, Dr. Watkins, who quickly became her favourite character. Countless hours were spent between the father and daughter, crafting these stories. Stories about friendship and love, about good and evil, about triumph and failure; all were loved dearly. Happy stories, sad stories, and everything in between. Each tale was full with vibrant characters and fantastical adventures. The detective's intelligence and wit, the doctor's bravery and loyalty, and the dedication of the clueless police officer, Inspector Graves, all were part of a extraordinary world shared between Laura and her father, a world that meant a great deal to both of them.

"Ah, the amazing consulting detective it is then." Lestrade adjusted himself into a more comfortable position. "Well, I've told about Dr. Watkins, Inspector Graves, and the esteemed Mrs. Huddleston. They're the consulting detective's family of choice. But did I ever tell you about his brother, the government man?" Laura shook her head, her eyes shining with delight. It wasn't every day she got a new character. "I haven't! Well, sit yourself down missy, and have I got a story for you.

The government man was a very powerful man. He could do anything he wanted if he put his mind to it. He was tall and impressive, but he wasn't frightening, not unless he wanted to be. He always carried an umbrella with him, even when it wasn't raining outside. No one really knew why, but I think that umbrella was really a secret weapon of some kind. He was older than his brother, the consulting detective, and they didn't really like each other. I could tell you why, but that would be a very long and boring story. So let's just leave it at that, they didn't like each other, not at all. Anyway, one day Dr. Watkins was surprised to find the government man having a staring contest with the consulting detective when he got home from work. Of course, they weren't really having a staring contest, but that was what it looked like. It turns out the government man needed the consulting detective's help. There had been a crime of national importance committed…"

* * *

><p>Mycroft had been speaking the truth when he told Lestrade he was going to be on a plane for a long period of time. It had been a taxing sixteen hour flight in his private jet. The voyage wasn't enjoyable, necessarily, but this meeting was an imperative one. Then, when he arrived at his destination, disaster struck. One of the important officials meant to be attending the conference was unable to be there due to untimely health issues. The meeting was postponed and relocated, so Mycroft found himself in for yet another long, exhausting flight. The British Government Official was not pleased, to say the least, but went through with the journey for the sake of world peace and prosperity. In his jet he had his own private compartment, a door separating himself from Anthea and his body guards. Sitting with a laptop in front of him he decided to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes, CCTV footage.<p>

Mycroft using the CCTV security cameras of London for personal reasons was no new development. He had been following Sherlock, and subsequently Dr. Watson, around with them for quite a while. What was new was his ever increasing observation of DI Lestrade. Of course, his surveillance team had been keeping tabs on the man ever since he first began working with Sherlock. Mycroft had never personally taken an interest in him until very recently. There wasn't any apparent reason for the change. In fact, Mycroft didn't quite understand it himself. He simply found the detective interesting for some inexplicable reason. The man wasn't terribly intelligent, nor was he involved in Mycroft's work. Yes, there was a connection with family here, but that had never interested him before now. So why was he all of a sudden intrigued by this man? Mycroft found that he had no answers. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, and proceeded to access the cameras on his laptop.

It was from these cameras that he witnessed the heart warming scene of Lestrade and his daughter walking down the street hand in hand. Judging by the direction they were walking, he guessed they were headed home from the park. The daughter was speaking animatedly about, if his lip reading skills did not deceive him, ducks, and Lestrade was smiling at her fondly. The bond between parent and child was a curious phenomenon, Mycroft mused. As a child, his parents had been mostly absent from his life. Seeing the inspector display such affection for this child was a strange experience. Mycroft wondered what it must be like to be a parent. It couldn't be all that different to the relationship he had with his brother, though no doubt parenting was more rewarding than that. It was true that, when they were children, Mycroft had played parent for his younger brother. After all, someone had to keep the young Holmes in line. Sherlock had hated him for it though, and their relationship had never improved since.

True family was not something Mycroft could claim to have experienced, and most of the time that did not bother him in the least. Sherlock alone was enough trouble, just imagine what it would be like if there were more family members to worry about. Still, watching Gregory and his daughter walking down the street, he couldn't help but wonder if he was missing out on something valuable. He figured that only more observation could answer his questions, so he continued to watch the father and daughter, silently wishing he was walking with them.

* * *

><p>"Can you tell me another story about the gov'nment man, daddy?" Laura begged. They were at Greg's flat just finishing up dinner. He had whipped together a simple meal of spaghetti and meatballs, and it seemed to have been quite a hit, judging by the second helping Laura had taken.<p>

"Another one? But I've told you three about him today! Do I detect a new favourite character?" Laura shook her head. "No? So Dr. Watkins still holds the place of honour then?"

"Dr. Watkins isn't my favourite character!" She cried out, clearly insulted that her dad had thought this was the case.

"He's not?"

"No! My favourite character is Inspector Graves, 'cause he reminds me of you." She stated matter-of-factly. Lestrade didn't even bother biting back his grin. It was moments like these that he knew he would remember forever. Everything was perfect; good food, easy conversation, and happiness all rolled into one moment. "Daddy?" Laura began, her brows knitted. "Are Inspector Graves and the gov'nment man friends?"

"Well..." Lestrade phone rang cutting off whatever he was going say. Seeing it was Donovan he answered. "I don't care how much Anderson is bugging you, I'm not coming in."

"There's been a murder, sir."

"I don't care, it's my day off. I'm not coming in."

"Hang on, hang on. We think it was the same murderer as in the Hudgens case. We found the same symbol painted on the wall." And that changed everything.

It took Amy thirty minutes to reach Lestrade's flat, evidently he had interrupted her weekend plans. Laura was looking tremendously dejected at being sent back to her mother's house.

Lestrade knelt down so he was at her eye level. "I'll tell you about Inspector Graves and the government man next time, okay?" He said, smoothing her hair back with his hand.

"Okay." She responded with a little nod. He pulled her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.

As Amy turned to leave he grabbed her arm. "Let her call me next time she asks to. I don't want her having abandonment issues when she grows up, because your pride wouldn't let her phone me."

"Fine, but don't blame me when she's crushed, because you don't pick up." Amy ushered Laura away from the building quickly, leaving her ex-husband to make his way to the crime scene of this new murder case. What neither of them knew was that, miles away, Mycroft Holmes had witnessed the entire exchange. The elder Holmes closed down his laptop, having seen enough. Family dynamics, he decided, were complicated things. Lestrade would never know it, but he had given the government official much to reflect upon that night. Sherlock often referred to John as a conductor of light, a stimulator of genius. Now, as he replayed the scene he had just witnessed in his mind, Mycroft found he was beginning to understand what that meant.

* * *

><p>AN: That was a LONG CHAPTER. Well, long for me anyway. I considered splitting it in two, but decided it was better this way. Don't expect me to do this all the time though. I fear I would end up disappointing you, for I am pretty darn lazy. If you have any questions don't be afraid to ask. Constructive criticism is not only accepted, but is encouraged. Thanks for reading!


	12. A Second Body

A/N: Alright guys, I am experiencing some serious Reichenbach depression right now and it is making it hard to can (and Tumblr isn't helping any). Sorry to everyone who reads this story, and had to wait for me to get my butt into gear. The chapters up now though. Finally. It's not up to my normal standards, but it will have to do.

* * *

><p>Another body had been found, a young woman, in her late twenties at the most. The victim, Evelyn Clayton, had been found dead in her house by the cleaners, late that afternoon. Her body was a far different scene than that of Mrs. Hudgens'. Unlike the previous victim, Ms. Clayton could never have been mistaken for a living person. Rather than the one gash through the stomach, this body had been stabbed repeatedly through the limbs, the torso, and even the head. Her blood was everywhere in the room, and with it, on the wall, was clearly traced that same moon and star symbol that had been found near the first body. It was one of the most gruesome crime scenes Lestrade had ever investigated, and that was saying something. If it wasn't for the symbol the inspector certainly wouldn't be treating these murders as linked. They appeared to be completely different, and, looking at the body, Lestrade knew that this job was too big for him. Hence, he called in Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Apparently, Sally and Anderson had made peace while Lestrade was watching Laura, for the Sergeant had insisted that they bring the forensic officer with them to the crime scene. Lestrade conceded on the condition that Anderson would stay out of Sherlock's way while the consulting detective was investigating. Sherlock, however, was taking an uncharacteristically long time to show up. He was already a half hour late, and many of the other officers were muttering bitterly as they waited. It wasn't fair of the consulting detective to hold up entire investigation by being late considering that they were the one's letting _him_ in on _their_ murder case. Lestrade waited in resigned silence. Sherlock would show up when Sherlock wanted to, and no amount of complaining would ever change that.

When Sherlock finally did turn up, John tailing behind him, the two of them were looking infuriatingly pleased about something. Even Donovan's routine insults didn't dim their beaming smiles. Greg sighed. Although he didn't begrudge his friend's their happiness, them showing up thirty minutes late and acting like they hadn't just inconvenienced everyone else was not increasing their popularity among the police force. He decided to get them into the building and away from the glares of the others as fast as he could.

"Right you two, the body's through here." The inspector lead the two amateurs into the house, and, to their credit, they did sober at the sight of the body. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust, while John averted his eyes, sucking in deep breaths. Grimacing, Lestrade filled them in on how the body was discovered, continuing on with the details about the victim that his team had already dug up. "She was American, apparently. Living out here courtesy of her father, who I've been told has a good bit of money. She was unemployed and likely to remain that way. Now, we haven't been able to find any friends of hers here, but we do have the contact info of her family overseas. We're working on contacting them. As far as the body goes, she would have died pretty early on while being attacked. The majority of these wounds were administered after death."

"So her assailant continued to stab her after she was dead?" John looked horrified. "I…God, why would anyone do that?"

"It is peculiar, isn't it?" Sherlock murmured, stepping closer to the corpse. "The first murder was executed dispassionately, with a completely different style to the one displayed here. Yet this," he gestured to the bloody mess before him, "this speaks of a crime motivated by deep emotion. Something about this killing is different."

"Do you think it's a different murderer? Maybe someone caught wind of the details from the last case and decided to use the symbol on the wall to throw us off the track." Lestrade voiced the theory he had been working out while waiting for the detective and his blogger.

"Don't be absurd, Lestrade!" Sherlock snapped. "This is obviously the same person. What are the chances that there are two ingenious, knife wielding murderers stalking the streets of London? For, yes, this criminal was clever. Look at all the blood. It's everywhere. In any normal case, there would be enough information left in that blood alone for you to bag the criminal without my help. Yet here you've found nothing; no footprints, no fingerprints, nothing at all except that symbol. It is not impossible that this is simply another, different, person, but I do believe it is very unlikely that two such people at large in London currently."

"All right, so it's the same person. Does that make this murder another warning like the last one?"

Sherlock looked at the DI with delighted surprise. "You knew the last murder was a warning message? Well done Lestrade! How intelligent of you! Did you work that out all by yourself?"

"Well…um…" Lestrade looked at the ground, unsure of what to say.

"Oh, I see." Sherlock deflated, realizing that, no, Lestrade had not just done something clever. "You had help in coming to that conclusion. How disappointing." He pulled out his phone and began to take photos of the room, much to Lestrade's displeasure.

Weakly, Lestrade began to protest, already knowing he was fighting a losing battle. "Now hang on. This is a crime scene. You can't just go taking pictures with your phone. I have official photographs in the case file, I'll give you those."

"And how, Inspector, would you know what to take photographs of?" Sherlock sidestepped a blood splatter, moving to take pictures of the other side of the room. "You couldn't work out any information from the last body without the help of me and my brother. How are you supposed to know what is important to photograph and what is not, hmm?"

Before the inspector could retort, John spoke up from the sidelines. "Could someone please explain to me what is going on? The last body was some kind of warning? And what does Mycroft have anything to do with this?" As usual, John was in the dark as to what was going on.

"Think about that corpse, John." Sherlock straightened from where he was kneeling to photograph a piece of paper lying on the ground. "She wasn't murdered in a fit of passion. In fact, once examined it appeared there was no reason for anyone to kill her at all. She wasn't the target, her death was a message. Lestrade didn't work this all out on his own, he had help from Mycroft."

"Look, I didn't say anything about your brother being involved…" Lestrade attempted to bluff his way out of the situation.

"Maybe not with your eyes you didn't, but your body language spoke otherwise." Sherlock turned towards the body. Judging by the emblem on this wall, Ms. Clayton's death was also a message; a different sort of message, a far more personal one both for the killer and the target of this warning. The end of this murder spree is drawing closer, but we still have a ways to go yet. Happy investigating, DI Lestrade." Sherlock turned as if to leave the room.

"Wait, Sherlock! You haven't told us anything yet!"

Turning back, Sherlock stonily rattled off his deductions. "This woman, Ms. Clayton, was not all that dissimilar to Ms. Lydia Sparks. Note the book on yoga positions sitting in the corner of this room and the invitation to a firewalking event lying over near the doorway. She came here from America searching for herself, and probably never quite found what she was looking for. Her life was spent experimenting with different lifestyles and belief systems, searching for happiness. If I were you, I would minutely examine everything in this house. There is a lead you are missing at the moment, simply because you are not being observant enough. In the event that you miss the clue a second time, I advise you to look for a link between Ms. Clayton and Lydia Sparks, for in that link lies the key to this entire affair. If all else fails, well, you can always contact dear Mycroft again, can't you?" Sherlock flashed his fakest smile before moving to leave again. "Come, John, we have places to be!"

Lestrade was left to reel in his team, silently cursing the younger Holmes under his breath. The lack of information was probably the consulting detective's way of punishing him for consorting with Mycroft, and honestly it was completely childish. Hopefully, Lestrade's team would find whatever clue it was that Sherlock had hinted about. Because, if not, Lestrade knew he would be forced to consult Mycroft once again. Oh well, it could be worse.

* * *

><p>"Alright, what are you up to?" The boys were back at Baker Street, and John knew something was up. The whole cab ride home, Sherlock had practically been giggling like a school girl, and now he was seated in his chair, smirking at the screen of his phone.<p>

"I'm not 'up to' anything." Sherlock stated. "I am merely looking forward to what is certain to be a fascinating confrontation between me and the murderer of Evelyn Clayton and Victoria Hudgens."

"I'm sorry, what?" John moved towards his flatmate. "What confrontation? Please tell me you haven't been texting a murderer again. Remember what happened last time? I ended up being kidnapped and locked up in someone's basement!"

"I have not been in contact with the killer, I promise. He, however, left us a little note. Or rather he left it for someone who was living in that house, and they were forgetful enough to leave it behind for us to find. Here take a look at this." He held out his phone, a photograph from the crime scene pulled up on the screen.

John took the phone, examining the picture. It was of a flyer Sherlock had found on floor of the crime scene. On it was writing in red ink, and printed at the top of the page…"Wait a minute. That's…that's the symbol, the symbol from the wall!"

"Exactly, John! You have proved you are more observant than that whole team of police officers!" Sherlock looked as happy as a child on Christmas morning. "Now tell me, what can you deduce from the writing?"

"It's a man's hand writing…" He looked up at Sherlock for conformation.

"Yes, go on." The consulting detective leaned forward, watching John with rapt attention. The staring did not help Dr. Watson's concentration in the least.

"And it says, 'Monday, three pm, Hickory Way'. So this is what, a time and a place?"

"Precisely! There is a car park on Hickory Way, currently closed for construction. You can be sure that this note is referring to that location, possibly because it will make a perfect place for a murder, definitely because it is significant to both him and the recipient of this note for some reason."

"And you're going to show up and meet him? Bloody hell, Sherlock, why didn't you tell Lestrade about this?" John took several steps backwards, flailing his arms with exasperation.

"If he's not smart enough to notice the symbol at the top of the flyer and realize its significance, then I don't see how he is going to be of much assistance."

"He could provide you with back up. This criminal is dangerous! He's killed two people! You will need all the help you can get." John all but shouted in Sherlock's ear.

"Calm down, I'll have all the help I need. You'll be coming with me." John continued to glare at Sherlock in vain, already knowing nothing he did would change the consulting detective's mind. They were going to meet up with the psychopath that had killed that girl they saw today, alone, without back up. It was stupid, it was reckless, and secretly John would have it no other way.

* * *

><p>AN: Again, I'm sorry this chapter was crap. The next update will probably take a while as well, seeing as stuff is going down in the next installment. Oh, just so you know, Hickory Way is a completely fictional street. Reviews are welcome, and I will probably respond if you give me one. Cause I'm creepy like that.


	13. Sherlock Works Alone

A/N: So I read "Alone on the Water"…bad decision. I blame the lateness of this chapter entirely on my reichenfeels.

**It's been a while since my last update so here's a recap of what's been going on. There have been two murders, Victoria Hudgens and Evelyn Clayton. The only thing that connects these murders is a mysterious symbol found painted on the wall of each crime scene with blood. Detective Inspector Lestrade is hopelessly confused, but Sherlock is being difficult and hasn't really helped him at all. Lestrade turned to Mycroft for help, making Sherlock even less inclined to tell him what is going on. Meanwhile, Sherlock found a note at the last crime scene, supposedly from the murderer. Now he and John are gearing up to meet the killer in an abandoned car park. **

An important author's note at the end of this chapter.

* * *

><p>Monday, 10:37 AM, Scotland Yard<p>

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry I consulted your brother behind your back, but you were shutting me out and I had no other option. Right now though, we need your help. Whatever clue you've left behind here is being completely lost on us, so if you could call me back…please…that would be great." Lestrade pressed the end call button on his phone, leaving his fourth message of the day (and the day was still young). It wasn't fair of Sherlock to do this, it really wasn't. It seemed like the consulting detective had been distancing himself from the police force further and further with each case, for what reason Greg could only guess. Lamentably, it was starting to become a problem. Those cases were Greg's, they belonged to him. Yes, he was letting Sherlock help, but the consulting detective going off on his own wasn't acceptable. If his superiors found out about what was going on, Lestrade would get the ax for sure. This phase would have to end, and soon. If only Lestrade knew what to do about it. Enlisting Mycroft's help was an attractive idea, but it would probably only serve to estrange Sherlock further from the police force. Where else could Lestrade go? The answer was simple: nowhere.

There was no Holmes helpline that could tell him how to handle this situation. The closest thing to an expert on all things Sherlock was John, who could not help Lestrade for the fear of also being ostracized for consorting with the enemy. No, Lestrade was on his own for this one, and he had no idea how to make things right. Perhaps he was overanalyzing this. Maybe Holmes wasn't punishing him. It was quite possible that Sherlock was simply being Sherlock, and if Greg gave him enough space he would perform with flying colors just like always. Then again, Sherlock had never behaved quite like this before. He had held back evidence and information in the past, yes, but always in order to be more effective. It was always part of some bigger plot where withholding information was necessary to the plan's success. As much as he wished it were, that didn't appear to be the case here. There was no clear plan whatsoever, or if there was it certainly did not involve the police. As wrong as that felt to the Detective Inspector, he was at a loss as to what to do about it.

So it was that Greg resigned himself to looking for a link between Lydia Sparks and Evelyn Clayton. Surprisingly, he actually found some information that seemed like it might be useful. When questioning her neighbors about friends or acquaintances, he discovered that Evelyn had not been living in that house alone. In fact, fairly recently, another woman had been seen with Ms. Clayton, and it was the general consensus around the neighborhood that she had moved in with the American. No doubt Sherlock had worked all this out the moment he stepped on to the crime scene, but still Greg felt proud of himself for discovering the information on his own. Perhaps they would be able to solve this mystery without the consulting detective. The arrival of this mystery woman perfectly lined up with the disappearance of Lydia Sparks, and her departure must have occurred prior to Ms. Clayton's demise for now she was nowhere to be found.

It was a long shot, but Greg reckoned that this person and Lydia Sparks were one and the same. For him, this discovery seemed to shed a new light on the investigation. Up till this point, Lestrade had been assuming that Lydia Sparks, whoever she may be, was the target of these murders. Now, he began to reevaluate the situation. It was just possible that the elusive Ms. Sparks was not merely an innocent caught up in something darker. It could be that she herself was the perpetrator of these heinous crimes. Again, this was a possibility that Sherlock must have considered on day one. Lestrade, on the other hand, was just beginning to see it as an option. The revelation changed everything. If Sparks was the murderer, they had literally no chance at bringing her to justice. Lestrade had been trying to locate her ever since the first murder with no success. Finding her had proved to be beyond the police force's abilities. In fact, the only person who might stand a chance at tracking down the woman was Sherlock Holmes, and he was currently not answering his phone.

DI Lestrade ran a hand over his face as if to stem the tide of the huge migraine he felt coming on. Today was going to be a long day indeed.

* * *

><p>Monday, 11:03 AM, 221b Baker Street<p>

John sat on the couch with a book in his hand. He had given up on actually reading it quite a while ago, too anxious about what today might bring to concentrate. Normally, Dr. Watson worked on Monday mornings, but in light of the current case he had thought it best to call in sick. He would have felt guilty about the deception if he didn't know that Sarah, his boss and ex-girlfriend, knew exactly what he was up to. If she knew and didn't mind, then he figured the matter wasn't worth stressing about. Today was the day that he and Sherlock would be cornering a serial killer in an abandoned car park. The very notion of what they were planning made John nervous; and this was not helped by the fact that Sherlock, the definite leader of this operation, was currently missing in action. The detective had rushed out of the flat sometime around seven that morning. Of course, he had neglected to tell his faithful blogger where he was off to, dooming the smaller man to hours of fretful waiting.

With his partner having been gone for nearly four hours, John was past the point of being mildly concerned and was now in the middle of an all out panic attack. Making things worse, he couldn't contact the detective, because the man's phone was currently sitting on their kitchen table, ringing out every fifteen minutes or so with Lestrade's calls. John would be lying if he said that Sherlock's recent attitude towards the police force hadn't been concerning him, but this morning's disappearing act had pushed him over the edge. The detective had been slowly rejecting Lestrade for quite a while. Was he now beginning to do the same to John? It was an irrational fear, but one that plagued him none the less. Sherlock didn't really need John's help. It was only their strong relationship that held their partnership together. In other words, John was expendable, and Sherlock could discard him with very little difficulty if he so chose. Paranoia aside, John was also concerned for Sherlock's well being. This killer was not someone to be dealt with lightly. If Sherlock had gone to Hickory Way on his own, as John suspected he had, who knows what could have happened.

Despite the veritable turmoil going on inside his head, ex-army doctor John Watson kept his face blank and emotionless. It was a habit he had adopted while living in the army. As long as he could keep his face cold and detached, he would be able to keep his stress under control. So he sat, book in hand, staring at the entry way, waiting for Sherlock's return. Fortunately, the wait was ended not long after that, as the detective returned. Immediately, John's anxiousness dissipated, only to be replaced by anger. How dare Sherlock come swaggering back here as if he hadn't just been missing for four hours? Didn't he know that John had done nothing but worry about him for the majority of that time? Stupid bloody Holmes, never thinking about anyone else's feelings. On the outside, however, he remained composed, looking down at his book as if he had been reading it the entire time.

"You were out a long time," John commented neutrally, masking his intense irritation.

"Yes, it took longer than I had anticipated," Sherlock muttered, discarding his coat on the back of the couch.

"What is 'it' if you don't mind filling me in?" This time John didn't bother trying to hide his anger, but still Sherlock remained oblivious.

"I was mapping out the area specified in the note. It was necessary in order to ascertain where the murderer will be meeting her. Now I've mapped out the best places for an ambush and I think I know where our man will be striking." The detective pulled out a crudely drawn map, placing it on the table and leaning over it. "All we'll have to do is lie in wait for him. I think this alcove will suit our purpose nicely. If we're there when he arrives he won't notice us until it's too late. I propose that we…"

John interrupted his flatmate loudly, "Sherlock!" Surprisingly enough, he actually won over the man's attention. "Sherlock, you cannot keep doing this!"

Sherlock blinked, confused. "Doing what? I haven't done anything to annoy you today, have I? I haven't been rude to anyone or broken anything. We're not even out of milk, so you can't be complaining about that."

"It's not what you've done. It's what you haven't done!" John had gotten up, and now was standing in front of Sherlock, his arms crossed. "You went to Hickory Way, an area significant for being frequented by a serial killer, alone. If this were a onetime thing it wouldn't bother me, but you do things like this constantly. You have this insane notion that working alone makes you stronger somehow. You never tell me your plans, you refuse to accept back up from the police force, you're driving Lestrade up the wall with worry, and honestly I'm not far behind him. I'm telling you this has to stop. I'd understand if there were a justifiable reason you were keeping your plans from me, but there's not. Obviously, you know more about this case than you're telling me, and if you know what's good for you you'll spill the beans. Right now!"

Sherlock looked taken aback by John's outburst. "You know everything that I know, John. You've seen all the evidence. As always, you see, you just don't obser-"

"Do not give me that line." John cut him off. "I want you to tell me exactly what is going to happen today. Who is going to be there, why are they meeting in the first place, and why was that note at Ms. Clayton's house?"

Sherlock huffed impatiently, "Very well. I can see you won't drop the subject until you get what you want. You didn't notice at the time, and Lestrade didn't either though I suspect he may know by now, but there was someone else living in that house with Ms. Clayton. There were signs of it all over; two cup holders out on the coffee table, several items clearly incongruous with the rest of Ms. Clayton's possessions so they must have belonged to someone else, a pile of clothes in the bathroom that would never fit our victim, etc. The pile of clothes I alluded to were a woman's, therefore we can assume that, in the days before her demise, Ms. Clayton had a female companion staying with her. I consulted my homeless network and found that, according to their memories, this woman appear at around the same time that Lydia Sparks disappeared. With that information all the pieces begin to fall into place don't they?"

John wanted to nod like he knew what Sherlock was getting at, he really did, but the fact remained that he had no idea what was going on inside the consulting detective's head. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. You're going to have to spell it out for me."

Sherlock once again sighed as if this conversation was the most disappointing thing that had ever happened to him. "Do you really not see? If we assume that Lydia Sparks was a companion to Evelyn Clayton, it not only links the two deaths, but also it would account for my discovery of the flyer at the last crime scene. Do you remember what Sparks' landlord said about her cell phone and laptop?"

"That she kept trying to destroy them?"

"Exactly. She was also burning all the mail she received. What do all of these things have in common?"

John thought for a moment, "They're all communication devices?"

"Perfect! Well done, John." Sherlock's disappointment vanished to be replaced by an affectionate smile. "With that in mind we can determine that someone was trying to contact Lydia. Why? We don't know yet. What we do know is that when she does a runner, a body is found in the flat where she had been living. This murder is simply another message, another form of communication. Only this time she cannot dispose of it so easily. Sparks goes into hiding, staying with Evelyn Clayton. It took him a while, but eventually the murderer found her. He once again left her a message, this time on a flyer. She once again ran, and he once again took up his knife."

"Wait, wait, wait," John struggled, trying to keep up with Sherlock's rapid speech. "You said he. How do you know it's a man?"

"Well it's possible that a woman could be behind this, but it's far more likely that it's a man. For one thing, there is the physical aspect. The killer was strong, strong enough to subdue Victoria Hudgens and drag her into that flat. While I don't doubt that a woman could do that, it is more likely that the perpetrator was a large man. Also there is the choice of weapon. Women very rarely choose knives as their weapons of choice, especially not when the crime is as painstakingly planned out as this one. Poison, a gun, or a knife in the back is what I would expect to find if a woman was the brains of this operation. The bloody scene we saw at Clayton's, with the plentiful knife wounds, was distinctly not feminine. Then, of course, there is the psychological aspect. When a woman is as intelligent as this criminal appears to be, she usually acts with precision, careful not to let her emotions run away with her. Our killer, on the other hand, is clever, but not as cautious as a female would be. Now, could it have been a woman? Absolutely. But we must also keep in mind that this is a crime of passion, revolving completely around Lydia Sparks. I think it is safe to presume that the person we are after is male."

"Right…okay, you must be right. So he left her the message…on a flyer. Why was it on a flyer? And… and what's with the symbol?"

"Ah, yes, the flyer. Possibly the biggest clue we've been given yet. The picture I took doesn't show it but the flyer is for a religious institution residing just outside of London. That symbol, with the moon and the stars, is not surprisingly a religious one, as I suspected from the start. At this time, I don't have very much information on the subject, but I am confident that it will be the key to solving this mystery."

John, startled by this revelation, spoke. "So this is what, a cult thing? That sounds really dangerous, Sherlock. I don't think we should be messing with these people without police backup."

"Don't jump to conclusions, John. We know that this religion holds some significance for Lydia and the murderer, but we don't know that the cult is actually involved in anything. I haven't had time to run a backup check on the institution yet, and my people are still out investigating for me. I don't have enough information to theorize yet, for, as I have told you in the past, theorizing without adequate data can prove to be fatal. For now, we should focus our energy on the task at hand. You were not wrong when you said things could get dangerous. I would go as far to say that they already have." With a turn, Sherlock switched his attention to the map he had drawn earlier. "Now, my plan is simple…"

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><p>AN: Okay, guys, here's the deal. I wrote this chapter and the two that follow it all as one mega-chapter, so you can expect another update today. That's right, TODAY! I'm so sorry this took me so long. It was such a freakishly long chapter. I'm glad I decided to split it up. See you later! :)


	14. The Return of Mycroft

A/N: Back again! Okay, so it's my headcanon that Lestrade is bad with technology, and that does play a significant role in this chapter. Just keep that in mind while reading. By the way, the stylistic changes I made for these chapters will not be permanent, they just helped out for this part of the story in particular.

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><p>Monday, 2:38 PM, Hickory Way<p>

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Do I have to?" John said nothing, merely glaring at him reproachfully. "But Jaaaawn…" Sherlock whined childishly. John had to fight the smile that threatened to break its way through his stern exterior. Sherlock never would have felt comfortable enough around anyone else to act so immature. The relaxed attitude between the two of them made the doctor feel special. Instead of grinning as he wanted to, John deepened his glare, crossing his arms to heighten the effect. Sherlock once again exhaled noisily, "Fine. I'll text Lestrade."

"Thank you." John discontinued his glowering, allowing a small, self-satisfied smile to grace his features.

Sherlock typed hurriedly on his phone for several moments, before pressing the send button and returning it to his coat pocket with a flourish. "I sent him a picture of the note. If he can't figure out what we're doing from that, than he's a bigger idiot that I previously believed him to be." John furrowed his brow. He had hoped that Sherlock would send something more specific, but this would have to do. "Why did you want me to text him anyway?"

"Because he's been trying to reach you all day. It was only common decency to let him know what's going on. Plus, it was a safety measure. No, no, Sherlock, don't you roll your eyes at me. What we're doing here is dangerous. Don't try to pretend otherwise. The text you just sent Lestrade should give us a nice safety blanket if something goes wrong. It's not an unreasonable precaution."

"I suppose not. If we are taking precautionary measures, however, we should power down our phones."

"What? Why?" John asked, alarmed at the idea.

"Because, John, if we leave them on, they could go off and compromise our position. Therefore, it is imperative to our safety that they cannot accidentally make sound. It's the best way to ensure that we will be safe. We need to turn them off."

John opened his mouth to retort, but found he could not argue with his friend's logic. Hopefully this would all be over soon.

* * *

><p>Monday, 2:39 PM, Scotland Yard<p>

DI Lestrade had already given up on phoning Sherlock two and a half hours ago when he received the text.

_Inspector, John is insisting that I contact you. No doubt you desperately need my help at the moment, but if we are going to catch this criminal I cannot spend all of my valuable time babysitting you and your team. The clue should be self explanatory. Don't bother texting back. Busy investigating. Will contact you again once we are finished.–SH_

What was that supposed to mean? What clue? It was typical of Sherlock, being so vague and mysterious in his explanations. His roundabout way of clearing things up had often infuriated Greg in the past. Was there a method to his madness? Perhaps. Whatever the case, it wasn't helpful. Right now, Lestrade needed facts, he needed a lead. This text message gave him neither of those things. If anything, he had more questions now than he did earlier. For one thing, now he definitely knew that Sherlock was investigating without police assistance. Maybe now would be a good time to contact Mycroft. He could help decipher the ostensibly meaningless text. Ah, but no, Mycroft was out of town at some important meeting. The last time they met, the British Government Official had told Lestrade he would contact him once he returned to London. The only thing Lestrade could do was wait for the other man to do that, as hard as that might have been for the DI.

Resignedly, Lestrade began to return to his work, once again forgoing the hope that a Holmes would appear out of nowhere and help him. The best course of action, he decided, would be to minutely examine all the evidence confiscated from that second crime scene. Eventually, they would find whatever clue Sherlock had noticed it might just take them a long while. Before he could go do that, however, several things happened at once. First his phone pinged, alerting him that he had received a message. It was from Sherlock, and Lestrade assumed it was another text. Then, almost instantly after the alert noise, his phone began to ring. It was Mycroft. Greg scrabbled with the phone cursing under his breath. He managed to compose himself before answering the call, accidentally deleting the message alert on the screen in the process.

"Hello, Gregory. It's Mycroft." The man on the other line responded to Lestrade's initial greeting. His casual tone sounded slightly awkward, even over the phone.

"Oh, hello. Back in town, are you?"

"Yes, for the moment. I recall promising to contact you once I got back. Any new developments?"

"About the case? Well, yes. There's been another murder. If you mean about Sherlock, then the answer is no. Same old same old, where he's concerned."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to meet for dinner tonight?"

Greg bit his lip. His knee jerk reaction was to say yes quickly before Mycroft had time to retract the invitation. He stopped himself for one reason: Sherlock. The consulting detective was already annoyed at him for meeting with Mycroft once. Just imagine what he would do if Lestrade began speaking to Mycroft on a regular basis. He might just burn down all of Scotland Yard. On the other hand, Mycroft could end up being a monumental help. The elder Holmes knew and understood his brother as no one else did. If anyone could help Lestrade get a handle on what was going on here, it would be him. "I don't know how early I'll be able to get away from work."

"Not to worry. I will take care of any complications. The car will be sent for you at 5:45. I couldn't help but notice how ill at ease you were at the restaurant during our previous meeting. I was thinking a more casual setting would suit for tonight. My place, maybe?"

"Oh, um…yes. Yes, that would be fine. Perfect actually. Just…yeah, alright." Greg stammered, feeling suddenly inelegant and clumsy.

They said their farewells, and Greg hung up, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. This was not a date. It wasn't even a get-together between friends. This was a strictly professional meeting, and it was nothing to get nervous about. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself. As a distraction, he returned to his phone. Sherlock had sent him another message, hadn't he? When he looked, however, the supposed message was nowhere to be found. He must have misread the notification. Whatever the case, he had a large job ahead of him, sorting through the evidence. He couldn't afford to waste any more time waiting on a Homes.

* * *

><p>Monday, 5:46 PM, Mycroft's Flat<p>

Mycroft could not remember ever being nervous in his life. He conversed with royalty every day, the fate of nations depended on his every decision. He had so much responsibility it occupied his every waking moment. If he screwed up even once it would have catastrophic results. Yet none of that fazed him. Mycroft Holmes did not get nervous. He never worried, he never fretted; in fact, he was never even the slightest bit apprehensive. Then he met Gregory Lestrade and something changed. Greg pushed Mycroft out of his comfort zone, prompting him to do and say things he never would have imagined himself doing or saying.

It was bizarre and slightly disquieting, the affect this ordinary man could have on a powerful man such as Mr. Holmes. As strange as it was, it was also invigorating. Mycroft had never felt more alive than he did at this moment, apprehensively awaiting Greg's arrival. In another one of those spur of the moment impulses, the government official had invited the DI over to his London flat. It was far more personal than their previous meeting place, and, although he didn't doubt the police officer would appreciate the change of scene, Mycroft could only hope that he wasn't over stepping his boundaries.

A text from Anthea alerted Mycroft that DI Lestrade had gotten in the car that had been sent for him. He was on his way. Once again, a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation ran through Mycroft. It was an unfamiliar sensation, but, surprisingly, it was not an unpleasant one. Is this what friendship felt like? Mycroft wouldn't know, he didn't do 'friendship'. This was something completely new to him. Never before had he met for dinner with someone without a real reason. Tonight he was meeting with a man, unrelated to his work, simply because he thought it would be a nice way to spend the evening. In the past he would have considered his desire for companionship a weakness, but no longer. It was odd, this shift in his attitude, and Mycroft was looking forward to seeing how the evening played out. It was certainly going to be interesting.

* * *

><p>Monday, 6:27 PM, Mycroft's Flat<p>

"…and now the prick won't even answer my calls. He's shutting me out of my own investigation and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it. I mean, I know I should have seen this coming. The man has been cutting me out of the picture for ages. It was only a matter of time until he decided not to confer with me at all." Lestrade had finished briefing Mycroft on what had occurred in his absence, and was now in full rant mode. "If my boss caught wind of this I'd be sacked instantly, but does Sherlock care? No, of course he doesn't! He runs off on his own without even imagining there will be consequences. And it's not just my neck on the line. He and John could get hurt. The two of them are constantly taking unnecessary risks, seemingly just so Sherlock doesn't have to deal with me and my team. It's completely ridiculous!" He angrily shoved his food laden fork into his mouth, effectively cutting off his speech.

"Are you quite sure you won't accept my assistance?" Mycroft inquired, not for the first time that evening.

"I would, but I'm not sure there's anything you can do. Apparently, there was some big clue at the latest crime scene that my team and I were too thick to notice. Without it, we're stuck at a dead end. I literally have no idea where to go with this investigation now, because we simply have no leads." Greg tried to remember to think before speaking. The last thing he wanted to do was bore Mycroft with some rambling tirade against his brother.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his mind suddenly working a million miles per minute. "What has he said?"

"To sum it up in a word: nothing. He hasn't told us a damn thing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No clues? No cryptic messages?"

"Well…" Lestrade paused, "He did send me this text earlier."

Mycroft wordlessly held out his hand, prompting Lestrade to clumsily fumble with his phone for several moments before passing it over for inspection. "Hmm…" Mycroft studied the message with rapt attention. "This was all he sent?"

"Hmm? Oh… yes. That was the only text message." Lestrade answered, his mind clearly returning from somewhere else. The police man flushed lightly, embarrassed at having been caught day dreaming. It wasn't his fault though. Clearly Mycroft was to blame for his overwhelmingly attractive intelligence. It wasn't Greg's fault that Mycroft's eyes were so nice, or that one open button was extremely distracting. Wait…no…he was doing it again. _Damn it, Gregory, you're not even half way through the meal yet and your losing your cool. No more wine for you!_

It was true though, Mycroft was being much more distracting than usual. He was dressed shockingly casually, forgoing his usual three pieced suit for a simple dress shirt and an expensive pair of slacks. The top button of the mauve shirt was undone, and Lestrade was finding it increasingly difficult to maintain that this was a professional meeting. Not a date, definitely not a date.

"Well, there's not much I can tell you, Gregory." Mycroft looked up from the phone, his lips forming an apologetic smile. "He wrote this with the intention of leaving you in the dark. And, if I'm not mistaken, I believe he knew I would end up reading it."

"Of course he did," Lestrade groaned. "He really isn't going to cut me a break here, is he?"

"No, no I don't think he is."

* * *

><p>Monday, 6:53 PM, Mycroft's Flat<p>

The meal had been lovely. Lestrade wasn't quite sure where it had come from, for he was certain that Mycroft hadn't had the time to cook it himself, but that didn't make it any less delicious. The meal was mostly completed at this point, and the two men were spending much more time talking than eating.

"You wear a ring on your finger." Lestrade commented, leaning back in his chair languidly.

"Indeed I do."

"I'm assuming it's not a wedding ring."

"You assume correctly. No, I have never been married." Mycroft absent mindedly played with the ring, aware of Lestrade's eyes following the movement of his fingers. "Nor have I ever wished to be married. No, the ring is a prop. It makes things easier, at the office, if others believe me to be in a committed relationship."

"But you're not." Lestrade said quickly. "In a committed relationship I mean."

"No, I'm not"

Their eyes met for a moment and Lestrade found that his heart was beating far more quickly than the situated merited. His brain continued to supply the information that this was not a date; a fact he was finding harder and harder to believe. In the back of his mind he wondered how many people ever got to see this side of Mycroft Holmes. The Mycroft Holmes that didn't dress in suits, that hosted dinner at his flat, that wasn't cunning and manipulative. Even though Mycroft hadn't told him any secrets or revealed anything personal, the moment felt strangely intimate, as if he had crossed some sort of barrier that divided Mycroft's acquaintances from his friends. Greg found himself smiling and Mycroft mimicked him, the British Government official's eyes sparkling in a way the DI hadn't witnessed ever before.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft's phone let off a shrill, obnoxious beep, cutting through the air like a knife. He checked it then rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue with annoyance."Oh dear, I'm afraid I have to take this. I do apologize."

"No, no, it's fine." Lestrade waved him off good naturedly. The government official sent him one last apologetic smile before excusing himself to take the phone call.

Greg was left alone in the room. His food had been completed long ago, and while there was still wine in his glass the last thing he needed at the moment was more alcohol. After sitting in silence for several long moments, he eventually decided, like the workaholic that he was, to pull out his phone and review the text that Sherlock had sent him. Surely there was a hidden message in there somewhere. Unfortunately, Lestrade was not the best with phones, even with his own, and soon he was lost among the many menus and options. He cursed under his breath, randomly pushing buttons hoping against hopes that he would stumble across a familiar menu by chance. The last time this had happened, the DI had ended up powering down the phone in order to reset it to the default menu. Phones were simply not Lestrade's division.

Suddenly he found himself looking at a photo he knew he had never seen before. It appeared that Sherlock's vague text message had been accompanied by an image. Comprehension flooded Greg's mind, this was the missing text message from earlier. It hadn't been a text at all, it had been a picture! His eyes widened as the implications of what he was seeing dawned on him. _Monday, three pm, Hickory Way._ It was a time and a place. This is what Sherlock had been investigating.

"I'm so sorry about all that." Mycroft strode back into the room, tucking his phone back into his jacket. "There was a small, international crisis that needed my attention, but the situation is under control now…Gregory?" He hovered at his dinner companion's side, clearly concerned. "Are you alright?"

"I was wrong. There was more to the message." He passed the phone over. Mycroft took the phone, frowning as he read the message on the screen. "It say's three. That was nearly four hours ago, Mycroft. In his text he said he would contact me when he was done investigating."

"Something must have gone wrong." Mycroft handed the DI his phone back, pulling out his own. "Anthea, I need you to send a rescue team to Hickory Way. It seems my brother has gotten himself into trouble again."

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><p>AN: Reviewers shall be loved forever! If you have any questions don't be afraid to ask. I will try to update with a third chapter today so I don't leave you in suspense for too long. I promise nothing, however. You may have to wait a bit. :( Sorry.


	15. The Confrontation

A/N: Blah. I ended up rewriting this several times and it took a lot longer than expected. Then, when I was still not done with this chapter, I was struck with inspiration and began to feverishly work on chapter seventeen of this story. So, yeah…I'm almost done with chapter seventeen, guys! Actually though, I'll probably end up rewriting all of that work there too…*Face palm* Lateness aside, I'm really nervous about what you beautiful people will think about this chapter. This is a first for me, I've never written anything like this before. Feedback would be lovely.

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><p>Monday, 5:57 PM, Hickory Way<p>

Shortly before the appointed time of three o'clock, Sherlock and John had situated themselves deep inside the building. Over three hours later, and they were still waiting for their man to show. For John, the initial excitement he felt at the beginning of their stake out had worn off. In stark contrast, Sherlock sat enraptured with his surroundings, as if each moment they spent waiting gained him new information about the killer. Several times, John had tried to lie down and take a nap, but each time he found himself roughly shaken awake by his enthusiastic partner. Similarly, he attempted to strike up a conversation, just to pass the time, but each time he opened his mouth Sherlock fervently shushed him. Eventually, he surrendered himself to the tedium of waiting in silence. They waited for hours and, as it was nearing six, they still had nothing to show for it. The car park was truly empty. Nothing moved but a few tarps, left behind by the construction workers, which blew slightly in the wind. When John began to get cramps in his legs from standing still for so long, he decided to break the silence.

"It's strange, isn't it?" He spoke over Sherlock's hushing.

Sherlock vehemently whispered back, "Be quiet, John! You'll give us away!"

"Oh, will I?" John asked, raising an eyebrow sarcastically. "There's no one here, Sherlock! In fact, for the three hours we've been sitting here, we have been alone the entire time!"

Sherlock held a finger up, pressing to his companion's lips, but otherwise refused to acknowledge John's statement. He turned back to his observation of the car park, making no move to take away his finger from John's face. Dr. Watson batted away his friend's arm, frowning.

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," Sherlock let out a noise that sounded like a cross between a sigh and a groan which John promptly ignored. "It's a bit strange that he asked to meet her at three o'clock, in broad daylight and everything. It seems counterintuitive, plus it's breaking a pattern. All of his other crimes were committed under the cover of darkness."

"Ah, but that's the deception, the brilliance of the criminal showing through once again." Sherlock answered, apparently overcoming his earlier qualms about making noise. "Think back, John. This started out with messages being sent to Sparks via her laptop and cell phone. Obviously, those messages were very repugnant to her as she consistently attempted to destroy the technology she received them with. Already we see she harbors an extreme fear or aversion towards this man, even before any crimes are committed. Now, do you think that fear would increase or decrease after he starts murdering people? Of course it will increase. After these crimes she is most definitely less likely to meet with him than before and he knows it."

"Wait, wait." John cut in. "If he knew that killing those people would make it less likely for her to come meet him then why did he commit the crimes in the first place?"

"Because, he also knew that Sparks is a highly moral person, who would feel immense guilt over these murders and would go to great lengths to stop them. Perhaps she would even meet with this man who she so seemed to dread. That is why the killer chose this time, three o'clock. It was chosen specifically to make the arrangement seem less threatening. No one ever thinks that they'll be assaulted at three o'clock in the afternoon. The movies have convinced us that those types of things only ever happen in the middle of the night. By indicating a time where the sun would still be high in the sky, the killer was disarming her, putting her off her guard."

"But why here? An empty car park seems a bit ominous, doesn't it?"

"Yes, from an outside perspective it certainly does. I suspect, however, that this location holds a deeper significance than you or I could begin to know. Something happened here; a first kiss shared or a promise made. Something of sentimental value to both of them. Places like this generally have very few people at them anyway. The fact that it was completely abandoned for construction was simply an added bonus." John nodded his head, curiosity satisfied. "Now, if you don't mind, I insist that we discontinue this unnecessary talking."

"Oh, relax. He hasn't shown up yet, I doubt he'll walk in the building right at the moment you finally give in talk for a little while."

BANG!

Out of nowhere, a loud crash sounded, echoing through the building. John nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, and Sherlock hissed, shooting him an angry glare.

"Did you hear-…" Sherlock silenced John with a hand over his mouth, releasing him when he was sure the doctor would be silent. He began to move forward, beckoning for John to follow him. Stealthily, the consulting detective crept towards the noise, keeping to the shadows. While before there had been an unnatural stillness and quiet about the building, now there were noises everywhere. Scuffling sounds, made by feet moving along the ground, echoed through the large, empty structure, creating the illusion that their enemy was right beside them. John's heart was thudding in his chest, sounding absolutely deafening to his own ears, and he was sure his ragged breathing would give them away.

Sherlock led the way to a staircase, going up another level, and unfortunately distancing them from the entrance of the building, their only path of escape. It was darker on this level, there were only a few windows and they were on the other side of the space. Sneaking to the center of the room, both of them were on high alert. John's hand fingered his gun in his pocket, ready to pull it out at the slightest provocation. The atmosphere was positively electric. This was it. They could be meeting their killer any moment now. Adrenaline pulsed through John's veins. This was what he lived for, the high he got from risking his life. It was his addiction to danger that had first attracted him to Sherlock and the crime fighting lifestyle he now led. It was irrational, self-destructive to get off on danger, and part of his brain knew this whole situation was messed up. In all honesty, however, there was no where John would rather be at this moment but here, at Sherlock's side.

From there, things took a dramatic turn for the worst.

Abruptly, Sherlock stopped moving, his eyes darting around the room evidently seeing something that John was missing. "John," he said lowly, a hint of panic in his voice. "When I give the word; run for the staircase as fast as you can."

Then John saw it, the glint of light on a knife near the other side of the room. A moment later, movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn and see yet another man, standing barely fifteen feet away, also armed. Looking around, now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could see them everywhere, all of them masked and armed. He and Sherlock were surrounded.

One of the men closest to them lurched forward. "Now, John! Run!"

They bolted for the stairwell, Sherlock quickly pulling ahead. Not for the first time, John cursed his short legs. He pulled the gun from his pocket, but it was knocked to the ground as one of their pursuers grabbed him from behind. Sherlock spun around at the sound of the gun hitting the cement floor. "JOHN!"6

The ex-army doctor swung his elbow back, hitting his assailant in the stomach. He pivoted, slamming his fist into the masked man's face. The attack was successful. The man released him, stumbling backwards, but it cost John valuable time. In an instant he found his arms pinned to his back, as two more of the thugs seized him from behind. A third stood in front of him, repetitively beating him across the face. Meanwhile, Sherlock was dealing with several enemies of his own. They had intercepted him as he was trying to rush to John's aid, and still they were the only thing keeping him from rushing to the doctor's rescue. He grabbed the smallest of his attackers around the middle and swung him around, using him as a human bowling ball. The man was sent flying towards several of the others, creating just enough confusion for Sherlock to slip past the men.

The consulting detective barreled into the man standing in front of his blogger, knocking him to the ground. John attempted to use the commotion as a distraction, pulling against the arms restraining him. Unfortunately, the men seemed to be expecting that, and he found himself thrown forward, landing in a heap. He struggled to his knees, only to have a kick to the chest knock him down once again. Sherlock disentangled himself from the man he had tackled and caught a glimpse of his friend before he was once again assaulted. A man grabbed him from behind, and Sherlock went limp as if giving up. The masked attacked let out a triumphant laugh sure that the consulting detective was surrendering. Then, without warning, Sherlock slammed his foot into the man's shin, effectively escaping his grasp.

The majority of the men was now concentrated around John, kicking him while he was down. As Sherlock witnessed John helplessly curl up in a ball on the ground, trying to shield himself from the blows being dealt by their attackers, the gravity of their current situation became clear to him. If the objective here was to kill them, there was no escape for John. Even with Sherlock's assistance, the doctor was no longer capable of out running the thugs. Sherlock stood a chance. If he turned and ran right now, he would live. However, it would mean leaving John here alone, at the mercy of the criminals; and that was not something he was willing to do.

In a split second, he had made his decision. He pelted forward, forcibly pushing aside everyone that stood in his way. He made it through the crowd before his foes registered his sudden presence, and flung himself to the ground. He wrapped himself around John, becoming a human shield. Sherlock was John's armor now, protecting his stead fast friend from the kicks and punches of their enemies, absorbing all the blows. The goons upped their assault, viciously harming Sherlock, trying to pry him away from John who had by this point lost consciousness. Sherlock merely held on to his blogger more tightly, wrapping a hand around John's wrist. There was still a pulse. While many of the men seemed to have reserves about attacking men who could hit them back, none of them seemed to have any qualms about attacking Sherlock and John as they lay helplessly on the ground. They attacked Sherlock zealously; blow after blow falling on Sherlock's back, his head, his side. And, after one particularly forceful kick to the head, his vision blurred. Then the world went black.

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><p>Monday, 7:22 PM, Hickory Way<p>

"Over here! I've found them!"

Gregory Lestrade heard the paramedic calling from a level bellow him. Mycroft had protested the DI's involvement in the search, insisting that his people were more than capable of handling the situation. Greg wasn't the type to sit back and wait when his friends were in danger, and had joined the search team anyway, much to Mycroft's displeasure. Now, here he was, rushing down the staircase with several other team members. The scene that awaited him at the bottom was not a pretty one. Sherlock lay unmoving on the ground, dried blood matting his hair and a multitude of bruises beginning. A somewhat conscious John stood protectively in front of him, frantically struggling against the paramedics whom he saw as enemies.

"John, John, it's alright." Lestrade rushed to the man's side. Fortunately, the doctor seemed to recognize him, for he froze in place. "We're here to help. No one is going to hurt you." John must have understood, he relaxed and let the medics get past him to the still passed out Sherlock. It was painfully clear what had gone on in this building. Both Sherlock and John were seriously injured, although the consulting detective looked as though he had received the worse end of the attack. The best thing for the both of them would be to get to a hospital immediately; they were hurried off to an ambulance already waiting outside.

Greg stayed behind. His eyes were fixed on the wall where an all too familiar sight. A blood red symbol was painted on the wall, the same one as all the times before. He walked towards it and crinkled his nose at the strong smell of wet paint. At least it wasn't Sherlock or John's blood. That would be a little too much for DI Lestrade tonight. Curiously, the paint was still wet. In addition, it looked much fresher than the injuries Sherlock and John had been sporting. What did that mean? He turned as the sound of approaching high heeled footsteps caught his ear. Anthea, Mycroft's PA, walked up, her attention riveted to her blackberry.

"We have notified Scotland Yard; they are sending you your team. You will be in charge of the investigation of what happened here." She didn't even look up from her phone as she spoke. Without waiting for a response, she turned to leave.

"Wait," Lestrade called, stopping her in her tracks. "Your boss, is he… is he okay?"

He had her attention now, but he wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing. She stared at him, a strange unreadable expression on her face, before forcing a small smile and leaving without answering his question. The clicking of her footsteps disappeared into the distance, leaving Gregory alone with the symbol on the wall.

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><p>AN: Okay, that was completely new to me. I've never written anything even remotely like it. So any thoughts you might have would help me a lot. The whole "_Monday, 5:57 PM, Hickory Way_" thing ends in this chapter. Back to the usual format. And as always, if I've gone and written something confusing don't be afraid to ask in a review or PM.


	16. Sherlock Comes to a Conclusion

A/N: I finished this chapter almost a week ago, but couldn't upload it because I'm on holiday and we spent a few days on an island that had literally no internet connection anywhere. I'm super sorry if I kept anyone waiting in suspense. I didn't really like what my story plan said for this chapter, so I improvised pretty much everything except the details about the mystery. I'm regretting the decision a bit now that I'm to the point where I'm posting. Ah well, we'll just have to see where this leads.

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><p>DI Lestrade was beyond frustrated. He was investigating the scene of Sherlock and John's abduction, and once again he had been left with little to nothing to go on. The CCTV in the area was pitiful, giving them no information about the culprits except that they all arrived separately and escaped without a trace. They had managed to track down one witness, but she could only tell them that she had seen ten, maybe fifteen, men entering the building on her way home from work. She had taken them for construction workers and hadn't paid much mind, therefore she couldn't do much to help further their investigation. At the actual scene of the crime they found very little evidence. John's gun was found on the ground, unmoved from where it had landed after slipping from his hands. Other than that, there was the paint. The DI had someone working on identifying the paint type, but he doubted that would lead anywhere. So far, the forensic analysis had proved very little. It was just paint painted by a paint brush, nothing very revealing there.<p>

Greg was tired of this case. The impersonal nature of the first murder, followed by the passionate bloodbath that was the second, plus this attack on Sherlock and John, made for a puzzling affair. What was going on, how many people were involved, and just how could it be put to a stop? He hadn't been round to the hospital yet, and had no idea what state Sherlock was in. What if the consulting detective was injured to the point where he couldn't help with the investigation? Oh Gods, what if he couldn't even tell Greg what he'd already deduced? Poor DI Lestrade would be doomed. This case was taking far too long, and it was only a matter of a few more days before his superiors pulled him into their office with big questions. They might even decide it would be better to assign this case to someone else.

DI Hopkins, the youngest of their ranks, was up for the challenge. Hopkins was not only ambitious, but she was also intelligent. She had enough brains to realize that Sherlock Holmes was a genius, and that made her ten times smarter than almost all the other detective inspectors of Scotland Yard. One of the only readers of Sherlock's website, she studied his methods meticulously. Humble enough to know when she needed the help of an expert, she had consulted Sherlock several times already with better than good results. Her immediate success as a detective inspector was not going unnoticed.

Greg didn't yet see Hopkins as a threat to his title 'The Best of Scotland Yard', but that could change very quickly. It definitely would change if this case was passed over to her before Lestrade solved it (with help from Sherlock). If she caught this murder (with help from Sherlock) she could be considered for that promotion he had been chasing for months now. He could hear the gossip now, _'DI Hopkins solved the case that had DI Lestrade stumped for months! A regular child prodigy, that one is. I hear she might be promoted to DCI. Good for her, I say! We don't have enough women on the force. Greg's been a DI for a while though. They call him The Best of Scotland Yard, but that doesn't seem to be getting him many promotions, does it? He must have made some enemies in high places. Wonder what he did wrong.'_

Well, he certainly wasn't going to let that happen. He had worked far too hard to get to this point. It could never be said that Lestrade was an ambitious detective. In fact, he would have been promoted a long time ago if it weren't for his 'unorthodox methods'. But he wanted this promotion. He deserved it after all the long hours he's pulled. Now that his family life was in shambles, work was what he had left, and he was damned if he was going to let some newbie take this promotion from him. He liked Hopkins and all, but the fact remained that Greg had been fulfilling the duties of a DCI for many years, and it was about time his salary came a little closer to matching his workload.

The sooner this case was wrapped up, the better. First, what he needed to do was question Sherlock and John. He tried both their phones with no success. That wasn't a good sign. Upon contacting the hospital, he was kindly informed by the staff that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was in no shape to be interviewed at anytime for at least the next week. Dr. Watson would be well enough to speak to them, but definitely not before tomorrow.

Without his two main witnesses, the investigation came to an abrupt halt. What was Lestrade supposed to do now? They never had found that clue that Sherlock had been alluding to at the second murder scene. Should they continue looking for that? Come to think of it, why had Sherlock been at Hickory Way? Because of that picture he sent Greg? It would have been a good idea to look for the photo again, but it was on his phone and, honestly, he wasn't sure he'd be able to find it if he tried. He was just debating whether or not he should call Sally in and ask her to look for the picture for him, when his phone began to ring.

He startled slightly, for he hadn't been expecting any calls. He didn't recognize the number, so it was with slight trepidation that he answered the phone. "Detective Inspector Lestrade,"

"Lestrade," An all too familiar baritone voice sounded over the line. "I understand you wanted to question me."

"Sherlock? What are you doing? You're supposed to be bed ridden." The DI responded, immediately angry. Trust Sherlock to ignore the orders of the hospital staff and call him anyway.

"I'm using the phone here in the hospital. We don't have much time before the nurse comes looking for us, so we'll have to make this quick."

"Us? John's there too? What the hell is he thinking? He's a doctor, he should know better. No, Sherlock. Go back to your hospital bed." Greg commanded. Of all the foolish things Sherlock had done, possibly compromising his own health by sneaking out of his hospital room barely made the list. But still the police officer marveled at the eccentric genius and his dedication to his work.

From the other side of the line, there came sounds of muffled talking. Clearly there was some debate taking place, most likely between John and Sherlock. Greg sat bemused, wondering if, for once, his advice was actually going to be followed. Finally a voice returned to the phone, this time John's.

"Look, Greg. This is Sherlock we're talking about here. If you refuse to talk to him over the phone he will, quite literally, leave the hospital and take a taxi down to your office. The only way to make him go back to the hospital bed is to hear him out. You know how he is. He always get's his way. So please, for my sake if not for your own, just let him tell you his deductions."

"Fine, pass me over." Greg pulled out his notebook and a pen, sighing. He needed any information he could get, and if Sherlock was determined to give it to him then who was he to argue with the man. He waited until he could hear Sherlock's slightly ragged breathing over the phone before speaking. "Alright, what have you got for me?"

"Not much. I counted at least eleven men, maybe more. They were all armed, but none of them used their knives. I think they were going for intimidation. They weren't expecting us to put up a fight. Despite the fact that some of them were experienced and must have done something like this before, they were not professionals. Many of them held back from the fighting, clearly scared out of their wits. The ages among the group varied. Some of them were very obviously young, while others seemed older and more skilled. They did not intend to kill us or we would be dead. I take it they left the gun behind?"

"Yes."

"Another clear sign that this is not something they do for a living. And yet, to go into a confrontation like that with other inexperienced men at your side, the whole thing speaks of a strong level of trust between the participants. So they're part of a group. Not a gang or anything criminal, we've already established that this is not something they did often. Going into a situation like this, they would have to be able to trust that their comrades would not bail out and would stay and watch their back. This implies that not only do they know each other very well, but also that there would be a punishment for anyone who didn't pull their weight during the fight."

"So? What does that tell us?"

"Everything," This conversation was obviously taking its toll on Sherlock, his breathing was irregular and he was speaking much slower than usual, and yet somehow he still managed to be an insufferable know-it-all. Lestrade could practically hear him smirking over the phone.

"Everything is not an answer, Sherlock. Explain."

"You obviously got the photo I sent. You interpreted the note, but completely missed the rest of it. Unless your team is reaching new levels of idiocy, you should have the hard copy of that flyer, because, of course, it was one of the photographs that I took at the second crime scene. Now before this attack I wasn't positive, but now I know that this flyer holds the answer to this entire business."

"Wha- Sherlock! Are you trying to tell me that you've solved the case?"

"Yes and no." Sherlock replied. "I know the where, the when, the why, and the how. What I don't know is the who. Tell me one thing. The symbol that links the other crime scenes, was it there?"

"Yes, it was painted on the wall in red."

"Paint…paint," Sherlock muttered under his breath, digesting the new information. "And when you arrived at the scene, was the paint still wet?"

"Ummm…" Lestrade hesitated, racking his brain for the answer.

"Inspector, it is of the utmost importance that you answer this question correctly." Sherlock's voice was immediately brusque, indicating that he was on the verge of a breakthrough. "This could be the clue that leads us to the conclusion of this case!"

"It was wet! The paint was wet."

"You're positive?"

"I'm positive."

There was a moment of silence, during which Lestrade could practically hear the wheels of Sherlock's brain turning over the phone.

"Of course," Sherlock murmured quietly before growing louder. "Of course! Now it's only a matter of which one. And that would explain-…Oh, that's clever! Very clever! Of course, I wouldn't have expected anything else from this one. If it weren't for me, no one would have even come close to knowing."

"Sherlock, slow down! I still have no idea what's going on. Would you care to explain yourself?"

"Don't you see? It's so obvious! Oh, right, you haven't seen the flyer. If you look at the flyer you'll see that it's…" Sherlock cut off mid-sentence. The muffled sound of a loud conversation made its way to Lestrade's ear. "Forgive me, Inspector. I'm afraid I have to leave you now."

"Wait, Sherlock! You haven't told me-…" A click signified the end of the call as the consulting detective apparently hung up. "Sherlock...Sherlock?" It was of no use, the line was dead.

Lestrade slowly lowered his phone from his ear. As interesting as the phone conversation had been, it hadn't given the detective any new leads. Nor had it shed light on any of his questions, if any thing, this case only seemed more convoluted now than it ever had before. And Sherlock had solved the mystery? Well, most of it anyway. If only he hadn't hung up.

Before Greg could even begin to feel angry about the situation, the image of Sherlock and John sneaking around in hospital gowns crossed his mind. He couldn't keep from chuckling a little. And why had they hung up? The nurses must have tracked them down. At the idea of the consulting detective and his blogger, still clad in the short gowns, tearing through the halls of the hospital with several nurses in hot pursuit, DI Lestrade found himself laughing hysterically. Everything was an adventure with Sherlock Holmes around; calling someone from a hospital being no exception.

* * *

><p>John was feeling distinctly less amused at Sherlock's hospital antics than Lestrade. As a doctor, he very well knew just how reckless Sherlock was being. The consulting detective was severely injured and putting any kind if stress on himself while he was supposed to be healing could end up causing permanent damage. Despite his god-like intelligence, Sherlock was mortal. And, like every other human being on the planet, he would die someday. That day would come very soon if he didn't stop taking such monumental risks. John, who considered it one of his responsibilities to keep the genius detective alive, found Sherlock's recent behavior unacceptable. So it was that, as the nurses were escorting them back to their shared hospital room, John was gearing up for a lecture.<p>

From the moment Sherlock gained consciousness, he had been causing trouble. After only a half hour spent causing distress and disquiet amongst the hospital staff, he had successfully reduced the chief of medicine to a begging, bargaining, pleading mess. And that was how Sherlock and John ended up sharing a room. It wasn't this that John was planning to lecture him about, however. Not to say that John didn't disapprove of Sherlock using his gift of deduction in such a manipulative way, for he did. But Sherlock did things like this all the time, using people's secrets and insecurities to get his own way. No, it was something else that was bothering John, something that had been going on for far too long. And he, John Hamish Watson, wasn't having it any longer.

When the nurse left the room, after ensuring that both John and Sherlock were safely tucked into their sick beds, the lanky, dark haired hospital patient sprung up and began pacing the length of the room excitedly.

"The paint was wet, John! You know what this means, or course."

"No actually, Sherlock, I don't. You haven't exactly told me any of your deductions." John sat up on his bed, his eyes tracking his partner as he paced.

"Don't be ridiculous, I've told you everything!" Sherlock countered without breaking his stride.

John leaned forward taking a deep breath. He was going to remain calm and he was not going to lose his temper, or at least that was the plan. "Look, Sherlock," He started then realized his words were falling on deaf ears. "Sherlock!" His companion turned to him, confusion clear on his face. "We need to talk."

Sherlock froze in place, sensing something was amiss in his blogger's body language. Was John angry with him? "I thought we were talking."

"Don't be a smart arse." John snapped, and then winced realizing Sherlock had been being serious. "I just need you to hear me, to listen to my words, for just a moment. Just a moment, and then you can go back to being unbelievably brilliant and intelligent."

John's words were laced with something akin to sarcasm, causing Sherlock to frown. He pivoted and came towards John's side of the room. "Have I upset you?"

"No, no. I'm…fine." John insisted. Standing and walking over to the other bed. Unconsciously creating more distance between himself and Sherlock. "It's just that…You can't keep doing this, Sherlock. Running into danger like that without help. And don't say you had help, because a middle aged, ex-army doctor does not qualify. You never tell anyone else your plans and one day that is going to catch up with you. This constant secrecy is killing all of us. Everyone around you, everyone important in your life, we're all stumbling around blind. We're not bloody geniuses like the people you grew up around. You have to explain things out to us, as boring as that may be for you."

Taken aback, Sherlock stared at John as if seeing him for the first time. "My behavior is always done out of necessity. Often it is imperative to keep my deductions to myself in order to prevent others from taking impulsive action. I thought you understood that. You've never said anything about it before."

"Yes, well, you've never been this bad before. You weren't exactly keeping that flyer a secret from Lestrade 'to prevent impulsive actions', were you? Now, I know that had to do with the thing with your brother, or whatever your problem was with him. But this has been going on for a long time. You constantly choose not to work with the authorities, and not because you can't or even because it's hard for you. You choose not to because it makes you feel superior, like your above working with them. And you know what? I'm sick of it! I'm sick of you risking your life just to feed your own ego."

Sherlock visibly bristled under the smaller man's accusations. "John, I'm not gambling with my life. I never take risks that I don't know I can overcome. Every action I take is carefully planned and calculated for success."

"Oh, nothing's going to happen eh? What do call the Hickory Way fiasco then? Was that nothing? We were ambushed, outnumbered, and completely taken by surprise. They could have killed us, easily. Those men would be behind bars if you had simply talked to Lestrade and gotten a police perimeter set up around the building. Instead, they beat us to a pulp. And don't even get me started on your behavior during the fight. You were so close to escape, a couple more steps and you would have made it to the stairs. Then you had to go and turn around and join the fight."

"I was protecting you. Are you saying that I shouldn't have done that?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying! Your life is so valuable. If the world lost you, there would be absolutely no one else capable of taking over your work. You are far too important to be running into a fight you have no hope of winning." John was shouting now. It was quite surprising that no one on the hospital staff heard their shouting. Perhaps they did hear, but elected not to intervene, having gone through enough of a headache with the Holmes patient already.

"So I should have turned and ran like a coward?" Sherlock was no longer raising his voice. Instead he spoke stonily, hiding behind his fall back emotionless mask. "I'm surprised at you, Dr. Watson. Think of all the times you've put your life in danger on my account."

"That's completely different! I follow you into those situations, and I am always fighting for both of our lives. You were fighting a fight that you knew was pointless. If they had wanted to kill me, there was nothing you could do about it. They outnumbered you ten to one. By coming back, you only ensured that they had the ability to kill you too, if that was what they were after."

"If they had wanted us dead, one man with a sniper rifle would have done the trick. It was clear from the beginning that our lives were not in jeopardy. As that was the case, do you really believe that I would have been capable of leaving you behind to deal with those fiends by yourself? Contrary to popular belief, I am not nearly that heartless"

"That's not the point, Sherlock! You obviously don't realize it, but you are seriously hurt. And it could have been so much worse. You could have sustained brain damage or shattered a bone. An injury like that would affect you for the rest of your life!"

"What could have happened doesn't matter. What matters is that it didn't happen. I am fine and will be able to finish the case." The consulting detective's tone clearly indicated that this was a dismissal. He folded his arms and turned to face the wall. If they had been at home he surely would have flounced of to his room and slammed the door, or picked up his violin and tortured it until John gave up on any attempts at a conversation.

John sighed, exasperated. "Nothing happened this time, but what about next time? What about the next time we're chasing after a dangerous criminal without backup? What about the next time, when we're outnumbered ten to one and you stay to protect me and end up getting yourself killed? What would London do without you tracking down its criminals? What would the world do without you to protect it from the latest crime wave? What would I do?" John's voice broke, and grew quieter. "What would I do without you? Have you ever thought about that?" Collapsing backwards, John sat himself on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

Comprehension flooded Sherlock's face. "Oh, John." He murmured, his tense, defensive manner immediately slipping off. He swept forward, kneeling in front of John so that he could look into the other man's face. "Now I see. This isn't about protecting me as an asset to the world. Or even about me keeping information from the authorities. This is about you and me. You've finally realized that losing me to my work is a very real eventuality, and you're…frightened." John said nothing, looking up to meet his friend's eyes. Sherlock dared to flash him a gentle smile. "If that were the case, why didn't you just say so?"

"I thought-…I thought you would accuse me of being too sentimental." John stated, confused both by Sherlock's reaction to this conversation and his close proximity to John's person.

"My dear John, if you think I expect anything but the most tiresome sentimentalities from you, you are sincerely mistaken." Sherlock's gentle smile grew more confident, and the small twitch of John's lips that answered his told him that everything was going to be okay.

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><p>AN: Oh God, what am I doing? I have no idea where that conversation came from. And the bit with DI Hopkins was completely off the top of my head. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to rewrite my story plan _for the third time._ *Sigh* Comments, questions, and concerns are all welcome. I always love to hear from you guys.


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